


If Night Falls, Use Stars for Streetlights

by Revenant



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), The Saint (1997)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adaptation, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explosions, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Journey Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Moscow, On the Run, Oxford, Romance, Russian Mafia, Sassy Q, Scheming, Schmoop, Stubborn Q, Travel, scientist!Q, scientists - Freeform, thief!Bond, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russia stands on the brink of revolution caught in the grips of an oil shortage during one of the coldest winters on record. James Bond, an international (and notorious) thief is hired by Ivan Tretiak, a wealthy Russian oil magnate who has control of the Russian mafia and his eye on the Russian presidency. The job? Go to Oxford, England and steal Doctor Quentin Russell's formula for cold fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is an adaptation of the 1997 film, The Saint; a few lines from it have crept in. Locations were selected to correspond with the movie and may not be technically accurate though I did my best. Please suspend disbelief and when in doubt, blame the film ;) The title is from Cooper Eden's children's story, If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow. [Containerpark](http://containerpark.livejournal.com/) did some wonderful art to accompany this, [take a look!](http://containerpark.livejournal.com/3288.html)
> 
>   
> **Read @:** [LiveJournal](http://revenant-scribe.livejournal.com/37098.html)  
> 

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/containerpark/60259162/4686/4686_900.jpg)

> Russia is experiencing its harshest winter to date, with temperatures in Moscow falling as low as -50 degrees Celsius yesterday. "This is the effect of Global Warming," Sergei Dolzhikov, the Russian Minister for Environment said. "In Russia we have one or two weeks of very cold, and then it is mild. We go swimming in January. Russians do not complain because it is chilly. This entire situation is outside the norm." 
> 
> Meteorologists report that the country has not experienced such a prolonged cold spell since 1938, with temperatures dropping 16 to 20 degrees below the seasonal norm all over the country. The death toll is steadily rising, and the number of people hospitalized as a result of freezing temperatures is now over three hundred. In Moscow, concerns are high as this is only the start of winter and there are several months until January, typically the coldest month. President Karpov has not volunteered any insight into how his government intends to cope with this crisis, saying only "this is not a state of emergency. These are unusual temperatures, but we expect this cold spell to end soon." 
> 
> **-BBC World News**  
> 

In his dream there is a little girl and she is screaming.

Her eyes are open wide, cornflower blue and caught in surprise. Her brown hair floats upward around her face, hands reaching up to him, still straining to catch hold. Bond wakes when she hits the ground. Breath hitching, he sits upright in a claustrophobic little flat with neutral walls the color of sun-bleached granite and one window covered by beige curtains that do not quite match. It’s a bolt-hole, a place with a bed and a lock on the door, and even though he has not once cooked a meal in it the entire space smells of boiled cabbage. 

As he slides out of bed his left foot jostles a leaning tower of books, sending them toppling onto the stained grey-brown rug. The subject of the books is all the same, "Ivan Tretiak: The Man, The Millionaire, The Legend", one proclaims in blood-red font, Bond's right foot is balanced on its cover, obscuring a black-and-white photograph of the man himself, high-forehead, greasy-black hair that hangs to his shoulders, well-tended beard, and dark eyes that stare out, empty as a shark's gaze. Bond pushes the book under the bed with his foot and stands. 

When he pushes back the drab, mismatched curtains he can see the ornate spires of Saint Basil's Basilica, towering like a colorfully decorated gingerbread house. The rest of the city looks grey and icy, washed-out and faded. Any other time and Bond would feel indifferent about Moscow. It's just a place and he's traveled most of the globe. Like any place Moscow has its secrets, its dangers, but it has its beauty as well.

With the weather being what it is, however, Bond finds himself wishing he had taken a different job. He'd been lucky to find a flat that accepted cash upfront, rented by the month and included heat. He'd paid handsomely for the privilege of warmth, and it's taking a bite out of his profits but he doesn't take it for granted, feels only marginally bitter about being here of all places rather enduring the relatively temperate London climate. He'd take rain over stiff biting winds and ice any day.

Not that he would have ever considered passing on this particular job. The payout makes the discomfort, which he reminds himself is temporary, well worth it, even considering what the heat in his flat is costing him. It's high payout for relatively simple work, and if the job brings him uncomfortably close to the Russian mafia that only makes things more interesting.

Bond is in Moscow to steal a microchip. What the microchip does, who invented it or why is irrelevant. The only thing that interests him is the fact that someone is willing to pay quite a bit of money for him to steal it. Currently the chip is in the secure vault at Tretiak Industries, which is why, when Bond washes up in the cramped bathroom so small it is impossible to use the sink if the door is closed, he's looking as much at his own reflection in the mirror as he is a myriad of surveillance photographs he has collected since his arrival in the city.

That's his third rule: never walk into a lion's den without familiarizing yourself with the lion.

In this case the lion is Ivan Tretiak, who is not a terribly interesting individual as far as corrupt Russian billionaires go. He became the sole owner of an oil and gas empire after his partner died suddenly in 2011. Two months later there was an assassination attempt on Tretiak's wife that prompted her to relocate permanently to Geneva. As no one followed her there with the intent to kill Bond suspects it was a simple way of getting her out of the way so Ivan could get about with his philandering and money-making without having to include her. Most people would probably have just gotten a divorce. To each their own, Bond supposes. 

Ivan's first son, Simpkin, was killed in a car crash five years ago. Ivan's youngest and only remaining son, Ilya, was driving. Bond supposes there's a story there, but it has no bearing on his job so he doesn't dwell on it overmuch.

Washed and shaved, Bond steps out of the bathroom and sits at the vanity where he selects a trimmed, bushy moustache – steel-grey with lines of silver – and settles it into place above his upper lip. There's a short-cropped wig that accompanies the facial hair, new eyebrows as well, and slowly James Bond begins to disappear, replaced by Ivan Ivanovitch, a character of Bond's own devising, created for expediency and entirely disposable. 

He layers the dark security uniform over his black bodysuit, finishes it off with a fur-lined cap and he is ready. Today, Tretiak is hosting a political rally to invigorate the Russian populous and to raise votes because, as he announced several weeks ago, Ivan Tretiak would like nothing more than to be made president of his country. People will be streaming through the opened doors of Tretiak Industries, the guards will have their eyes focused on the guests, not each other, and Bond intends to walk through the front doors, up the stairs, steal the microchip and then vanish.

After all, that's his forte.

_______________________________________________________

It is not coincidence that has Bond arriving at the front steps of Tretiak Industries at the same moment the black limousine bearing Ivan and Ilya Tretiak pulls to the curb. Bond's timing is never anything short of impeccable. Amidst the chaos of personal bodyguards, frenzied news reporters and photographers, shouting protestors and frazzled security Bond, dressed in his security uniform, walks up the front steps and through the door without garnering a second glance from anyone.

The front entrance hall is smooth green-marble tile and high-reaching colonnades, a wide staircase wraps elegantly along the left and directly in the center of the space is a large circular security booth where a cluster of guards hunch in front of tiny televisions flickering through the surveillance feeds from the entire building. All five of the guards hop to their feet as Ivan Tretiak strides like a puffed-up peacock through the halls of his building, and Bond takes the opportunity to jog up the staircase, away from the rally that he has no intention of attending. 

Midway up the stairs is a ten foot bronze statue of man standing, his chest bare with a cloth hanging about his hips. It seems a strange sort of thing to have in the front entrance of a business establishment, but Bond likes to think the message the artist intended is this: because of oil and gas this bronze man can stand about with no shoes and no shirt and not be bothered. It's something he imagines the Russian public might feel very strongly about considering most of them are freezing to death these days. Likely why there are so many angry protestors just out-front.

Bond's interest in the statue is this: the right bronze fist is at just the right height to offer the perfect angle and view of the live security feeds cycling through the televisions at the desk on the main floor. It's a simple matter of sticking a miniature camera into place as he walks by, and then he is set.

With the elevators closely monitored there is no other choice than to make his way to the service staircase. His destination is on the twenty-sixth floor, but on the fifteenth Bond finds himself confronted with a red-bricked wall barring further progress. Health and safety would certainly have a thing or two to say about an emergency exit being walled-off, but Bond has an abundance of faith. When God closes a door he opens a window or more aptly, when a greedy billionaire oil magnate walls off a staircase he neglects to put an adequate lock on the window not two feet away. 

The lock is outmatched by Bond's skill with a set of picklocks and the brisk wind eagerly pushes its way in through the opened window. Hastily, he sheds his heavy coat and the rest of security uniform, until he is in the close-fitting black body-suit. Pulling the face-mask into place over his false moustache, Bond pulls out the gadget of his own design: a retracting silver ladder that, when fully extended, resembles a drainpipe, and makes his way to the window.

It takes less than one minute for the ladder to reach the twenty-sixth floor and another four minutes for Bond to climb it. Since his suit is carefully designed to regulate body temperature the only effect the rushing wind has on him is a slight deafening effect, as well as a general slowing of his movements. 

When he slips onto the wide stone balcony he spots half-erected scaffolding, a tarpaulin and a case of tools. He steps over the mess, readying his picklocks to make quick work on the door only to find that it is already unlocked. It's marginally disappointing because the number of opportunities for him to use his skills with lock picks is rapidly decreasing. Most everything these days worth stealing are kept safe behind elaborate electronic mechanisms, or fingerprint scanners or keypads that require Bond to invent code-breaking gadgets. 

Still, an open door is an open door, so he walks through it.

The twenty-sixth floor is abandoned. No security patrols and no employees, the floor is closed-off. Everyone's attention is on the rally, which means the crisscrossing security beams that bar his progress through the ornate atrium are all active. Bond's goggles make the beams visible, shining bright and white-blue like distant starlight. Bond crouches just out of range and checks his digital and highly modified watch to find that the temperature of the room is 21.2 degrees. Not entirely uncomfortable. Pulling out the monitor clipped to his belt, Bond lowers the temperature of his suit and waits a moment. Two faint beeps declare that his temperature has been suitably decreased and, as simple as that, he is able to stand up and jog across the atrium, security beams in place, and not set off any alarms.

Just in case, he leaves the suit's temperature settings in place. Generally, he is very good at improvising and at thinking on his feet, but as Bond has no wish to be murdered, or to spend the rest of his life in prison, he prefers to take as few chances as possible. In his experience, even with thorough planning, there is always a good chance of something going wrong, of something unexpected happening. 

For this reason, the first thing he does when he reaches the vault is to mount a laser-triggered flash bomb on the wall to the right of the safe door. Then he picks up his modified mobile phone and checks the video feed he is getting on the security desk at the front hall. All the guards are accounted for, and the screens show nothing but clear hallways. He has twelve point eight seconds to crack the safe, get the microchip and get out before the security feed cycles back to the vault. Wasting no time he rigs up his code-breaker and gets to work. 

In just under five seconds, two beeps and a flashing green light indicate the safe has been unlocked and Bond steps forward spinning the handle that looks rather like the helm of a ship and opening the door. Inside is a wall of little lockboxes, important documents and devices kept safe behind little locked doors. Bond's microchip is inside box forty-eight and he liberates it quickly from its metal prison, ignoring all the other numbered doors and their potential treasures. Greed makes people sloppy. Greed makes thieves take unacceptable and foolish risks.

Just as he is pocketing the microchip there is a high-pitched metal wrapping sound, a perfect rendition of 'shave-and-a-haircut', followed by a voice speaking Russian, ordering him to turn around. Bond has done enough reconnaissance prior to this job to recognize Ilya Tretiak's voice.

Even with the best planning, there's always something.

"I don't speak Russian," he lies, masking his voice with a thick Australian accent.

"Stand up," Ilya repeats, this time in English. "Turn around, and put your hands behind your head. Slowly." 

Bond complies, turning to find Ilya's narrow, sneering face and dark-black eyes fixed on him. The man has long wavy hair, glistening as it hangs limply around his face. He's holding a black cane topped with the golden head of a snarling animal. "Take off the mask," Ilya says, and again Bond cooperates. 

The fake hair is still in place, the makeup he used to make him appear older and careworn, draining the color from him and aging him by at least a decade is there as well. Still, Bond feels exposed. With the Australian accent still in place he says, "Listen. If I give this to you, you're gonna give it to your daddy, and what's he gonna give you? Not even a Christmas bonus. The guy I'm stealing this for will give me one million. If we go in partners we can split that, fifty-fifty. That's a half million hard currency. Think of the drugs you could buy with that. You'll be discoing for a decade in Moscow, mate."

Ilya's sneer only grows. "I am not your mate, and I don't need your small change. That's your first problem. Here is your second." The other man pulls a gun from beneath his suit jacket, cocking it as he takes aim at Bond's chest. He hooks his cane on the railing of the stairs and extends his free hand, flexing his fingers in a beckoning motion as he says, "Microchip, please."

Keeping his movements slow, Bond reaches into his pocket and removes a small black button, which he proceeds to fumble and then drop onto the floor. When Ilya snarls at him, Bond offers an unrepentant shrug. "Guns make me nervous."

"Stay there!" the Russian growls, cautiously crouching down and groping his free hand across the floor. Bond waits for the exact moment when Ilya shifts his gaze to look for the microchip and then he kicks out, knocking the gun out of the younger man's hand, sending it skittering across the floor out of reach. 

He makes it two steps towards the exit before Ilya realizes what is happening, stretching his leg out across the floor and managing to trip Bond mid-stride, sending him off-course. Bond staggers into the railing with enough force that Ilya is up and raining punches down onto his back before he can recover his footing. Bond might have more muscle than Ilya, but the Russian has training and a sadistic streak a mile wide. The security alarm has started ringing at this point, and Bond is keenly aware that their skirmish has been spotted on the security monitors. He can't afford to linger. 

With a sharp jab of his elbow, Bond knocks Ilya back. As the younger man staggers, Bond pulls his laser pointer from his pocket and targets the flash-bomb he stuck into place, squeezing his own eyes shut just as the crackle-hiss of the device becomes a boom of sound. Ilya cries out, momentarily blinding, and Bond takes off sprinting, back down the steps and along the hallways, through the atrium and onto the balcony.

He makes it all the way to the edge before the exploding roar of a gun going off and the crack of a bullet hitting stone just to his left brings him to a halt. Bond raises his hands and turns around to face Ilya. "You have nowhere to go." The dark hair man has Bond in his sights, and he speaks with so much malicious glee that Bond can't help but to offer a defiant smirk as he takes one step backward and falls off the side of the building.

_______________________________________________________

The impact of landing on his back directly onto the tarpaulin-covered inflatable that Bond delivered via truck to this alley the other night does a better job of knocking the air out of his lungs than the punch Ilya landed moments before. He stays still long enough that, should anyone peer over the roof after him he would present a rather convincing corpse.

Then he slides down onto the ground, fishes a bottle of Vodka and a ratty brown coat he stashed in the unlocked cabin of the truck and hunches forward, shuffling toward the mouth of the alley as he wraps a scarf over his head. 

When the guards charge past him he's jostled but otherwise ignored: they are searching for a black-clad corpse, not a stumbling drunkard. Bond is free to head west toward Red Square where he offers his Vodka to an appreciative homeless man who calls Bond a 'saint' and raises the bottle high in a toast, _"Spasiba, spasiba!"_

Bond says, _"Pazhaluysta,"_ and keeps walking.

He sheds the coat and scarf around the next corner, as well as his moustache and wig. An alternate disguise is waiting just where he stashed it the other night, in a backpack behind a skip. Bond transforms from an old homeless drunk to a young tourist. He steps out of the alley into Red Square where he spends fifteen minutes snapping photos of the Kremlin, trying not to laugh when Ilya's goons swoop down on the homeless man carrying Bond's Vodka and are subsequently accused of liquor-theft. "It's my bottle!" the man shouts out. "Fuck off!"

No one spares Bond a second glance.

_______________________________________________________

With the microchip safely in hand Bond returns to his flat long enough to strip it down, everything from photographs to the books carefully disposed of. The few things he brought with him to Moscow all fit neatly into his black carry-on luggage, and his gadgets, the ones that he hasn't been forced to leave behind, are mailed to a post box he keeps in Australia. He can retrieve them later. Since the flat was paid in full, in cash, and in advance, there is nothing left to do, nothing tying him to this place and no traces of him left behind.

Bond showers and then applies a fake tan. At the mirror he obscures his blue eyes with brown colored contacts, hides his hair beneath a brown-haired wig, then he dresses in a expensive suit, fine black with a hint of green, and a dark green tie accompanied by polished shoes and an expensive gold watch. James Bond, briefly resurrected after the shower, becomes Martin de Porres, a thoroughly respectable traveler with three seats reserved on the right side of the plane just above the wing of the seven o'clock flight from Moscow to London. He takes the middle one.

A well-crafted escape plan doesn't end at the door. Ilya Tretiak will have Bond's face, or at least some half-disguised version of it, at the forefront of his mind. Then there is always the Yard to consider. They've been ineffectually tracking him for quite a while, and Bond has no intention of being caught.

As ever, Bond has a plan. Her name is Galina Boytsov and she is also on the seven o'clock flight to Heathrow airport. Her husband has decided it is best for her to be in London, and thought she doesn't know it, she is going to help Bond return home.

Galina used to work in antiquities before she married. When she gets up to stretch her legs midway through the three-hour flight, her eyes catch hold of the ornate gold cross swinging idly in Bond's left hand and her steps falter. "It's beautiful," she says. "The workmanship." 

He looks at her, holding the necklace out in a silent offer and Galina accepts it carefully. "Ah, Cloisonné," she says, smiling fondly at the piece and holding it reverently for a moment before she offers it back. "It is old."

In point of fact, the necklace is a skillful forgery that Bond created himself. "It belonged to my grandmother," he tells her, making certain to add traces of a Spanish accent to his voice. Martin de Porres is Spanish, after all. "Would you like to sit down?"

Conversation about the necklace veers into more personal terrain with very little effort on Bond's part. Galina is unhappy and she is alone, he has only to offer a sympathetic ear with the excitement of something foreign and exotic, a bond established through necklace and the snatches of false personal history Bond has alluded to, and Galina confides in him about her reason for being on the flight.

"You've been married not even a year, and already this bastard has a girlfriend?" Bond's outrage startles her but he shakes his head quickly enough, waves a dismissive hand as he says, "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

She smiles a little sadly. "I don't mind. I've been thinking it myself ever since he gave me my plane ticket. What's your name?"

"My name is Martin de Porres," Bond says. "I'm from Spain, but I was named for a Peruvian saint who could cure the sick or the injured by the laying of hands." Gently, he rests his hand lightly on hers. This time there is no sadness in her smile.

_______________________________________________________

The customs agent stops him with a hand on his upper arm. "Step over here please, sir."

Bond is the same height and build that the Russians will have, put out in the description of their thief. There's not much he can do to alter either of those attributes so instead he endures the intrusion and the delay, hyper aware of the two inspectors from Scotland Yard who are peering at him closely. A man and a woman, always the same two, and he assumes these are the people driving the search. It's difficult to imagine that bits of his life have been an open file on their desk, but flattering as well. 

They still haven't caught him, after all.

The woman wears her hair short with tight curls. She has glinting dark eyes that she fixes on him as she turns slightly to her partner, holding up a sheet of paper between them as she says in a hushed voice, "Same eyes as the Van Gogh theft last year in the Netherlands. Different chin, though. What do you think?"

Her partner shakes his head. "He's the same height and build as the Russians gave us, but he doesn't sound like an Aussie." 

"He could be faking it," Bond hears the woman say as he puts a little extra effort into his Spanish-accented grumblings about the inconvenience of being stopped by customs agents. At another desk down the way, Galina accepts her passport from the customs agent with a smile, striding through to collect her baggage.

"I'm sorry, sir," Bond is told. "If you don't mind stepping into the room just over here?" He's patted down at least three separate times, prodded and x-rayed and generally delayed and for all of it he maintains a near-constant stream of accented-grumbling, just enough to be believable and never so much that he runs the risk of rubbing anyone the wrong way.

In the end, when no microchip is found anywhere in his luggage or on his person, and it can be proved that he hasn't swallowed it, Bond is sent on his way with his carry-on and a brisk apology for the inconvenience. No one takes even a second glance at the folded square of paper in his wallet with a hotel address written out. He's a tourist; of course he would need a place to stay.

_______________________________________________________

She has a top floor suite at the Dorchester and when Bond knocks Galina opens the door wearing nothing but a silk robe tied loosely at the waist, with the gold cross he gave her hanging round her neck. There is an open bottle of champagne chilling on a table beside two glasses.

They fuck on her king sized bed, lights off and curtains open wide, the streetlights and the moon giving them all the light they need. Her smile loses all traces of sadness, and even after they've finished and she falls asleep her lips are still curling upward.

Bond leaves her the necklace but removes the microchip he hid on it. He pulls a rose from the fresh flowers set out by the hotel staff and leaves one lying on rumpled sheets beside her, then he disappears out the door, hailing a cab at the curb. He asks to be taken home.

_______________________________________________________

'Home' for Bond is 81 Holland Park, a once-great London hotel that sheltered Hollywood starlets and rock stars in its heyday. Now it's merely his, a place to hang his coat and kick off his boots; a place that's as good as any other but ultimately, a place that he can walk away from easily enough, if it comes to that. In his line of work Bond cannot afford to become attached to anything.

The security measures are in place and nothing has been disturbed, so Bond heads up the stairs for a shower, ridding himself of every last vestige of Martin de Porres, including the tan. When he steps out onto his soft white bathmat he is himself again. In the master suite he swaps his damp towel for a pair of sweatpants before stretching his legs out across his covers with his laptop, his back propped on a mound of pillows as it boots up and chimes its readiness.

There is an encrypted message waiting for him. The microchip has been successfully delivered and his money has been released. Bond checks his Swiss bank account to verify that everything is in order, and then deletes the message. He never writes 'thank-you' messages. With the job finally, successfully completed, he powers down his laptop and sets it aside and, after a moment of staring up at the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, he flicks off the bedside lamp.

Home sweet home.

_______________________________________________________

When he is not working a job Bond always has the sense that his life is on pause. He orders groceries online to be delivered to his door because he doesn't like to be bothered with trifles, and he doesn't own a car. Unlike houses, which merely accrue dust over time, a car needs attention, needs to be taken out every now and again and properly cared for, and Bond is so rarely in London there doesn't seem to be any point. His days are spent reading, fiddling with his computer, exercising in the room he has made up in what used to be the garage. Sometimes at night he goes out to a restaurant or a club and meets someone. A temporary distraction: Bond doesn't keep in touch with anyone he sleeps with, and he certainly doesn't have any friends.

James Bond does not exist. The various characters he plays on a job have more paperwork than 'James Bond'. Without a name he can never be identified, and so how can he ever be caught? The Yard can search for Ivan Ivanovitch, or Martin de Porres but there isn't anything to tie them to Bond except perhaps a certain similarity in their faces, their height and build.

Years ago he set a goal for himself: a private Swiss bank account totaling over fifty million pounds of liquid assets. At this moment, he is only three million dollars shy of that mark. Three million pounds away from retirement, and then maybe he'll try his hand at being 'James Bond'.

Fifty million. When he'd been a kid reciting rosaries as penance kneeling on the cold stone floors of the chapel it had seemed like an inordinate amount of money, almost impossible to attain. Even in his early twenties he had imagined he'd be doing jobs up until he was too old to physically be capable of it. Then maybe it could be his consolation, that he was retiring because he had achieved his goal and not simply because he was too old to continue. Still, here he is. Not even in his forties and only three million short.

Arguably, the goal was arbitrary. It was a contract he had made only with himself and so the terms might easily be renegotiated. A part of him wonders if it isn’t simply time. He's cynical now; tired and jaded, and he doesn't pretend anymore that what he's doing is helping anyone but himself. He's a thief, and the people who hire him are always bad men motivated by greed. As much as the jobs are an exciting challenge, it never feels like enough. 

The one thing Bond never imagined was that the priests at the orphanage might be right: doing this sort of thing, stealing, pilfering, thieving, whatever you called it, wears on the soul. You lose parts of yourself and, over time, perhaps he has lost too much of himself to ever be whole again.

With that in mind he opens his laptop and pulls up the page he uses to accept jobs. It is a simple travel website available to anyone interested in learning about Timor: geographical facts about its regions, its climate, vegetation and so on. When viewed with the correct decoding program in place, however, the simple articles about the northern python, the iris lorikeet or the green pigeon, as well as the comments attached to the articles, are revealed to be brimming with the sort of information organizations such as MI6, or the CIA would very much like to get their hands on.

One such article regarding pest control, for instance, reveals a very interesting offer when Bond decodes it: "To the human fly, would you like to earn more flypaper? Give me a buzz, Boris the spider." 

There is nothing to indicate that the message is from Ivan Tretiak, but Bond knows that it is. A simple scan with some the programs he has purchased and modified confirms this. Naturally that means the entire job is a trap. Perhaps there is a slight chance that Tretiak was genuinely impressed with his first-hand experience with Bond's abilities and wishes to put those abilities to use for his own personal gain, but those odds are very slim, and not in keeping with what Bond knows of the man's character. Tretiak's morals exist on a sliding scale that is not weighted in Bond's favor. Better to avoid this job altogether. Stay alive and fight another day.

Play it smart.

Bond types: "One million US dollars, nonrefundable reserves you a quiet table at a romantic little spot in Berlin called Schönefeld, which has a cozy transit lounge. To get inside you walk through the metal detectors, and I walk through the metal detectors, and since you know that I'm not armed, and I know you're not armed, we can both fall in love and nobody gets hurt."

Bond has never gotten anywhere by playing things safe.

_______________________________________________________

Bond chooses the airport because there is nothing cozy and quiet about it. That Ivan Tretiak will bring his son goes without saying, Ilya is the only one who has some sense of what Bond looks like. A large part of Bond wants to simply stride through the airport without any disguise whatsoever, but he has long-since learned the advantage that being underestimated can offer. Better to maintain the pretense that they are all strangers, and that this is simply another job.

He arrives at Schönefeld dressed in a dark blue suit, with rose-tinted glasses and wearing a strawberry blond wig. His accent is German because he doesn't want either of the men to associate him with his country of origin. In a pinch, Bond could easily pick up and live just about anywhere, but he has his preferences.

"You have a long and beautiful cane," Bond purrs, his English smoothed out by the thick, lilting German accent. Leaning purposely into Ilya's space he finishes, "Along with your beautiful eyes."

The dark haired man skims a brief, irritated glance at him, hesitating on Bond's hair, which he chose especially for its resemblance to the younger Tretiak's own hair. "Go away," Ilya snarls. His father doesn't even glance up from his newspaper. The front-page headline reads: "Tretiak calls for Russian rearmament". 

With an exaggerated yawn, Bond turns his attention to Ivan, and nods at the paper. "That photograph doesn't do you justice."

"Who are you?" Ivan demands imperiously, folding the paper carefully.

"My name is Bruno Hautenfaust," Bond drawls obligingly, still with his German accent in place, speaking slightly higher than his own natural tenor. "I was named for a saint who had everything a man could possibly want: wealth, women, the whole bit, and then – inexplicably -- he took a vow of poverty and became a hermit and went off to live in the forest." He casts a pointed, leering glance to Ilya and adds, "In the nude."

Ilya jerks out of his chair. "This is ridiculous. Go away."

"I represent the professional you hired," Bond continues, ignoring the younger man. "I'm his business manager. I speak for him."

Ivan keeps his assessing gaze fixed on Bond. "Who does this thief work for? CIA? MI6?"

Bond shrugs. "He's not a race-car, nobody runs him. He's an independent contractor."

"Then no one will notice if I _kill_ him," Ivan says, dropping his voice low as he leans forward. There's a gleam in his dark eyes, and Ilya looks almost eager. "Yes, I can do that. Even in this place with its metal detectors and its crowds. I can kill you and walk away."

Bond yawns, making certain to convey his complete lack of concern with this threat. He prefers to be direct, but Bruno Hautenfast, Bond decides, is far more cavalier. "It's so early. D'you guys want to get a coffee or something?"

As Bond strides over to the café just beside the gate lounge, Ilya engages his father in a whispered discussion, undoubtedly having recognized Bond as being the same man from Russia. Ivan hushes his son harshly and shoos him away to a different table before he joins Bond.

The tables are just slightly too small for two grown men to sit at comfortably. Ivan pushes his chair to the side, sitting sideways to avoid bumping their knees together. They both stay silent until a young waitress comes over to take their orders. _"Kaffee?"_ she asks in German, pausing by their table.

_"Klein bitte,"_ Bond answers. Ivan holds up one finger and she makes a note on a pad and disappears.

"What do you know about cold fusion?" Ivan asks, settling more comfortably in his chair.

Bond takes a moment to mull over the question. "It ranks only slightly above astrology. Scientists who claimed to have achieved the experiment have never been able to duplicate it."

"Hm. Until now." The Russian takes a dark folder from out of his briefcase and tosses it onto the table. 

Inside, Bond finds news clippings about the experiments in cold fusion being undertaken by a scientist, Doctor Quentin Russell. There are printouts of several scholarly articles written by Russell, and a few other pages, all of them relating to or making some mention of Doctor Quentin Russell.

"There is an electrochemist working out of Oxford," Ivan explains. "We believe that this Doctor Russell is on the verge of making a breakthrough in cold fusion."

"And?"

"And," Ivan Tretiak says, "I want your employer to obtain the formula for me."

Bond takes a sip of his coffee as he considers. "My employer is very busy, and you are very boring. Your offer must _inspire_ him."

"This doctor has repeatedly thwarted my agents' attempts to find the formula. He's cagey. Difficult."

"Maybe your agents are stupid." Tapping his fingers on the table, Bond pretends to mull all of this over. "Three million."

Ivan snorts. "That is ridiculous."

"Why? If this Doctor Russell has done what you say he has, and I bring the formula to you, then you'll have the corner on the world energy market. At three million dollars, this job will cost you a nickel for every million you stand to make."

"This is not about me," Ivan insists, putting on a plaintive expression that looks hideously false. "This is about Mother Russia."

"She's not my mother, Mister Tretiak," Bond says, smiling cheekily. "Three million in a bank in Zurich. Agreed?"

Ivan leans back in his chair and sighs. "Okay. How long will it take to get your employer's agreement?"

"Just a moment." Bond drains off the rest of his coffee and jots something down on a napkin. Then he checks his watch and, still keeping his German accent in place, he says, "I'll do it. Here is the account number. _Auf wiedersehen_!"


	2. Chapter 2

Despite reading through every piece of paper included in the packet Tretiak handed over at the airport, Bond knows very little about Doctor Quentin Russell. Mostly Tretiak had included articles and essays, which offered negligible insight into the man himself. 

He ends up running a Google search for Russell on his flight back to England and quickly discovers why his briefing packet was not very useful. Outside of a few articles written by or about him, and a brief comment found on Oxford's website that mentions a grant to develop his scientific research, as well as the fact that Russell is apparently working out of Queen's College, Bond finds a suspiciously scant amount of information.

For one thing, there is not a single photograph anywhere, no Facebook account, no Twitter, nothing. Bond puts his computer skills to work and slips into Oxford's online records and while he has no trouble accessing any other student who graduated, or failed to graduate, the firewalls around Russell's student file are impossible to breach. No descriptions of the man exist anywhere outside of an accounting of his various and multiple achievements. Not even a passing reference to his date of birth.

What Bond does find is a note on Queen's College's events calendar announcing a lecture being given by Russell regarding his research. The date of the lecture is tomorrow, in the morning. Bond has very little time to figure out his angle.

Armed solely with a general opinion of electrochemists and a rough estimation based on Russell's academic achievements, combined with a need to be more thoroughly disguised should this all go tits-up, Bond arrives at the university dressed in a tweed suit jacket, beige trousers and well-worn brown shoes. He's wearing false teeth in order to alter the bottom half of his face, they are crooked and yellowing, his wig is stringy and grey, combed-over in an ill-advised and unsuccessful attempt to hide a rapidly balding head. He stoops and shuffles as he makes his way to a spot in the second row of the lab. It's a fair turnout. Mostly graduate students in white lab coats, but there are enough people of varying ages in civilian clothes that it's clear cold fusion has managed to garner some genuine interest. 

Bond is late, just slightly so, but when he takes his seat there is already a man standing at the center of the room between the rows of lab tables who closely resembles Bond's own disguise: tweed jacket with elbow patches, hideous comb-over and thick glasses. He's been droning on about Pons and Fleischman since Bond crept in and if this is Quentin Russell than there is some genuine concern on Bond's part that he might simply fall asleep before he has the opportunity to steal the man's research.

Ten minutes in and Bond starts looking for any sort of distraction, which he finds when a quiet rustling in the front row attracts his attention. A young grad student is fumbling a bottle of pills from out of the pocket of his lab coat. His profile is striking, bright green eyes peering out from behind the apparently requisite glasses, a mop of tousled hair the color of dark roasted coffee and a slender nose turned up just slightly at the end. 

Bond leans forward. "Are those drugs? Can I have some?" he asks, maintaining the American accent of his current disguise. "He's boring the life out of me."

"They're for my heart," the younger man explains keeping his voice soft, though there is no mistaking the humor in his tone.

Bond watches as the younger man takes his medication dry, returning the bottle to his pocket. On the floor, Russell is still droning. Sighing, Bond turns back to his distraction and shifts forward on his seat as he whispers, "You have very pretty eyes. You're a pretty young man." 

The young man in question raises one dark-coffee eyebrow and seems torn between blushing and laughing; caught somewhere in the middle his lips part but no sound escapes. After a second he recovers himself enough to ask, "Who are you?"

"I'm here to do an interview with that Doctor Russell. I'm gonna expose him as a fraud." Grinning cheekily, crooked and yellowed teeth on display, Bond cocks his head sharply to the side and says, "You don't put any stock in this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo, do you?"

Both eyebrows are raised now, and a slow blossoming smile like a cat that has just finished licking a bowl of cream stretches across the younger man's face. "Actually, I do."

At the center of the room the droning geriatric rocks back on his heels, thumbs hitched in his suspenders and says, "It is my pleasure to introduce, Doctor Quentin Russell!"

Still smirking, the younger man murmurs, "Excuse me," and then stands up, to smattering of applause.

Completely forgetting his disguise and his accent, Bond says, "You must be joking." 

Doctor Quentin Russell is apparently ridiculously young to be so accomplished, distressingly attractive and apparently very used to dealing with naysayers. Within moments of beginning his lecture, it is entirely clear that Russell is enthusiastic and passionate about his field. Bond learns that cold fusion is a method of creating energy: "Very simply," Quentin explains, "when positively charged deuterons are attracted to the palladium cathode of this apparatus, they cram together -- millions and millions of them inside the cathode getting closer and closer together until they fuse, and they create energy in the form of helium." 

There is something charming about the doctor's enthusiasm, his naïve hope that one simple discovery could change the entire vast complexity of the world: "You could drive your car 55 million miles on a gallon of heavy water. It would be the end of pollution. Warmth for the whole world." 

It's hypnotic. 

Bond realizes that he is wasting time in the lecture, it's quite clear that his current disguise will have no luck wrangling the relevant data from Russell, yet he is reluctant to go. Still, he reminds himself, there is a job to be done and he should really put his time to more productive use. He goes.

___________________________________________________

Russell lives in a flat located just off of High Street. There are no security alarms or special, complicated locks of any kind. Bond takes out his picklocks and has the front door open in less than three seconds. 

Inside the walls are soft, unobtrusive colors and the furniture is tasteful and coordinated. Bond suspects the entire flat came furnished. There is an impersonal, gender-neutral quality to the dove grey sofa and the antique wooden coffee table, and there’s enough mix between old and new to appeal to either a modernist or a historian.

The clutter, however, definitely belongs to Russell. Books stacked haphazardly by chairs, on countertops in the kitchen and the bathroom, teetering on the fireplace mantel and covering the queen-sized sleigh bed. Poetry and short stories rest atop books on chemistry and physics and philosophy, and popular novels lean against the stacks, no rhyme or reason apparent in the system except perhaps that Russell happened to be standing just here when he decided to put down what had only moments before engrossed him. There is also seemingly no restriction on subject matter, and no way for Bond to ascertain what the younger man's preferred reading material might be. 

The artwork on the walls is personal as well. Black and white photographs of family and friends, framed replicas of Da Vinci's notebook pages featuring several of his inventions, a sepia-toned portrait of someone that strikes Bond as familiar though he never paid much attention to art. Original artwork hangs beside small collections of postcards and photographs of places from around the world.

There are post-it notes everywhere. They march across the walls and sometimes across the picture frames as well, filling up the gaps on the fridge, on the bathroom mirror, on the lampshade by the bed. The one Bond reads on the side of the fish tank reads: “FEED FISH,” in precise capital lettering. There are reminders on the fridge about food expiring and the basket sitting on the kitchen table is empty save for a note: “BUY FRUIT!”

Some notes bear reminders of upcoming appointments: 'Meet with D.C. 11:00' or 'Pub Friday – under pain of death'. Most of them, however, are filled with quotations by Samuel Johnson, Napoleon, Churchill, and other notable figures; sometimes they are filled with segments of poetry.

Despite the reminder note on the aquarium the brightly-colored, exotic-looking fish inside all look healthy and the tank is filled with plants and rocks formations. If it was possible for a fish in an aquarium to be spoiled, Bond suspects that these might be so. The plants lining the window ledge are all well-tended, which means that as much as the notes about empty fruit bowls and soon-to-be rotten milk might suggest someone particularly scatter-brained, perhaps Russell just has peculiar priorities. 

One entire cupboard in the kitchen is filled with nothing but various kinds of black tea, at least twelve different tins of earl grey alone. The kettle on the kitchen counter is lime green, and in walking around the flat Bond has spotted four different teapots. The answering machine, when Bond checks it, declares that Russell has no messages.

In his exploration, Bond finds a hardcover notebook wedged beneath the cushions on the sofa. When he picks it up and gives it a cursory inspection he is confronted with Russell's rather ornate and terribly scrunched penmanship. The book falls open to a page marked with a postcard of the Shelley monument, when Bond pushes the card to side he sees a scrunched entry: 'Stopped and visited Shelley again today. How can I love a man named Percy? Isn't there someone in the world who can consume me like that?' and, further down under a different date: 'although I pass the Shelley monument every day its sadness strikes me every time. I feel a very personal loss when I look at it. So much pain and so much passion.' Carefully, Bond closes the book and returns it to its place.

There isn't much by way of technology in the flat. A charger for a mobile shares the desk with a sleek, thin-screened computer. There is a laptop half-tucked beneath a rumpled sheet in the bedroom, and a rather intimidating alarm clock on the nightstand, with so many buttons Bond hardly knows what to make of it. An old-fashioned record player takes up space on a bookshelf in the living room filled with records, but beyond that he finds no other gadgets. 

Backtracking, Bond sits at the desktop computer and finds that it is not even password locked. When he consults the most recently opened file he hesitates, surprised: 'Cold Fusion Notes'. As he downloads the file Bond skims through it, finds incomprehensible equations interspersed with technical jargon and more quotations: "To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death. Luke 1:79" 

Under a section of calculations that have been highlighted in blue and struck-through Bond reads: "the world operates through dynamic exchange. Nothing is static." Tretiak had said that Russell was cagey and difficult, but Bond has a different theory: Russell is an eccentric genius, a romantic innocent. An idealist. 

At the very end of the document Russell has typed: 'These early failures had purity, don't lose that focus.' 

Bond finishes perusing the computer, grabs his thumb drive and leaves. He’s walking away just as a forest green P1800 Volvo pulls into a spot in front of the flat. Russell pops out of the car, juggling a soft leather briefcase, an oversized scarf and an umbrella, his keys dangling precariously from the fingertips of his right hand. His glasses are askew. Bond watches the younger man pause at his front door, not setting anything down as he fiddles with the lock and then disappears inside. 

Bond thinks, definitely an eccentric.

___________________________________________________

Q stops by the Shelley monument at the end of the day. If he gets the timing right -- and he's had plenty of time develop a system -- he has the entire room to himself. Most tourists bus into Oxford for the day and have to leave in order to return to their hotel for dinner. After one or two visits, the occupants of the campus tend to forget that Shelley is here. Nobody seems to be quite as obsessed with it as Q.

Except, it's not really an obsession. After a day spent pulling his hair out, puzzling his way through formulas and theories and, with distressing frequency, coming up with nothing, he finds Shelley's solitude soothing. It's a place where he can catch his breath before he carries on again. It's a place of quiet without the pressure of expectation.

Stepping down into the room, Q sighs. There's no solid door separating him from the bustle of campus but he stops hearing the laughter and the footsteps, the noise receding as he slowly circles the statue. 

He's halfway round when he realizes that he's being watched.

There's a man: tan skin, piercing bright blue eyes, longish deep gold hair, lying on his side on the bench. There's a sketchbook open in front of him, a piece of charcoal held loosely between the man's fingers. His lips are thin but his gaze is steady.

Q feels a shuddery flutter in his chest and fumbles quickly into the pocket of his parka, retrieving his meds with a shaky hand. He feels so inelegant and clumsy and foolish standing there with a thudding heart that he starts hurrying toward the exit as he swallows his heart pill. "Sorry," he mumbles as he passes the stranger.

"Do you like it?" the man asks, and Q hesitates on the steps. He takes a cautious look sideways and finds the man looking at him calmly. "The statue, do you like it?"

"Uhm." Almost involuntarily, Q finds his gaze flickering from the man's hypnotic gaze down to the sketchbook where a detailed and beautiful image of the monument is taking shape. He glances over his shoulder at Shelley and immediately feels some of the embarrassed tension leave him. "Of course." Clearing his throat he says again, stronger, "Of course I like it."

"What do you love about it?" the man presses. Q can't place the accent, but he thinks it might be South African. Q has never traveled anywhere, certainly never as far as Africa.

Turning his attention back to Shelley, Q succumbs to the strange magic of the sculpture, feels the tension eking out of him, finds himself being pulled back into the room and closer to the monument. "I like the light," he answers, finally. "How it holds him, silent. As if it's taking care of him." Q smiles. "Yes. That's what I love about it."

The man has returned to his sketching, something in the cant of his head indicating that he is still listening even as he draws. Q takes a cautious step closer to the bench so he can get a better look at the drawing. "You're an artist." There's no way that the man is anything else, not when he has rendered the monument so perfectly onto paper, captured the shadow, the bright highlights across pale marble skin even though he only has one piece of dark charcoal worn almost to a nub.

"No," the man answers. "I'm just a traveler."

"Where are you from?"

Those bright blue eyes peak up from beneath the golden strands. "I'm from Africa."

"Africa," Q echoes. "And you're visiting Oxford?" Of course he knows that Oxford attracts tourists, but Q has been trapped here for so very long that he has long-since stopped seeing the novelty of the place. The ancient buildings, the campus life, every bit of it is simply home, familiar to the point of predictability. Given the wide expanse of the world, Q has no idea why anyone would choose to visit Oxford.

"I'm searching for something." The man shrugs inelegantly, one finger reaching out to blend the shadows of his sketch, softening the edges. "…for purity," he says, almost to himself. "How about you?"

Q half-smiles. "I'm searching for energy."

For some reason this makes the other man laugh, and the sound is light and bright; it makes Q grin sheepishly. The stranger looks up from his sketchbook, fixing him with those intensely blue eyes as he says in the smooth, alluring accent, "They say Africa is the place where all life began. My home is far away from the town, at night the wind rustles through the tall grass, the stars overhead shine bright. It's not like the city; there with the sky-arching overhead you can tell the earth is round. You hear the animals, lions, birds. It feels like the heart of the world."

Q feels transported, he can feel the warm heat of the African sun, hear the noises of the wild and the echoes of the world. He's seduced by it and even though he feels foolish standing in front of Shelley, speechless and strangely yearning, he can’t help it. 

Before he can think-up an appropriate response the openness on the other man's face closes off, his gaze dropping down and then away. "I'm sorry." The embarrassment is plain in the stranger's tone. "I've been told I'm not good with people."

When he strides past Q he leaves an exotic, spicy scent in his wake. The sketchbook and the nub of charcoal are still sitting on the bench. By the time Q manages to unfreeze himself the man is nowhere in sight. 

He'll come back, Q tells himself. He'll realize he left the book behind and he'll come for it. A very strong part of Q feels protective of it, of Shelley, lying open and bare on the pages, the artist awkward and alluring and beautiful and equally exposed somehow, by this image.

He closes the book carefully and tucks it under his arm. If he sees the man on his way home he'll deliver the book to its rightful owner and if not, he'll safeguard it until he has another opportunity to see it safely home.

___________________________________________________

Bond follows Quentin to the Magdalen Arms and notes, with no small amount of satisfaction, that while the man's briefcase is left in the Volvo Bond's sketchbook never leaves the younger man's side. The restaurant is populated but not overly busy and Bond is able to take a seat in the far corner, where he can observe the younger man without risking being noticed. Quentin places his order when the waiter comes by, but returns his attention almost immediately to the sketchbook.

It took Bond over two days to create the thing, filling page after page with his own art and some of his own dubious poetry, collected snippets of other people's words as well, quotes and poems. All of it designed with Quentin in mind, to appeal to him: photographs and rough pencil drawings of exotic buildings from all over the world, the narrow side-streets of Italy, rough gestures capturing the chaotic bustle of New York, darkly shaded renditions of monuments and statues, of people sitting at cafes, dipping their feet into fountains, sitting on park benches watching the birds. Bond is a thief but he is also a forger. It's surprising how often successfully stealing something involves replacing it with something else. 

Creating the poetry had been a new experience; Bond isn't in the habit of writing it. Too sentimental. For the sake of appealing to a romantic such as Quentin, however, he ventured into the foreign realm: "I see my angel for the first time, know my purpose, feel my birth, hear at first faintly then distinctly, the sweet strains of our union. Our love heats up the cold universe, and gives my tired, desperate hope a reason, and a season to be revealed."

It's clear when Quentin reads the passage because the younger man flushes, looks both touched and saddened at the same time. Bond takes the opportunity to cross to the man's table. "You found it." 

"Excuse me?---" Quentin looks up and blinks, startled. Immediately his demeanor shifts. "I didn't steal it! I was just … I was looking…"

"I don't mind." Bond stands by a chair, waiting patiently until Quentin's manners catch-up to him and he invites Bond to join him. Settling into the chair, Bond smiles. "I'm glad you found it, but I have to ask… are you following me?"

"Me?" Quentin asks. "I wasn't. I just … I come here sometimes. To eat, I mean. I live here. Well not here, obviously, but here as in around. In the area." His mouth clicks shut suddenly as if his brain has finally managed to send the message that he should stop rambling. Quentin clears his throat as he carefully closes the sketchbook, pushing it gently across the table. "You should have this back."

Setting the book aside, Bond requests a cup of tea from a passing waiter. When he turns back Quentin is observing him with a curious face. "What is it?" Bond asks him,

Quentin shakes his head, looking sheepish. "It's nothing. I thought you'd drink something more exotic, that's all." 

"Earl grey is exotic for me. Usually I drink coffee, or wine."

"It's strange," Quentin says, looking at his teacup wistfully. "I drink it so often, somehow it doesn't ever occur to me that it might be new or exotic to anyone."

The waiter returns with the tea and while Bond pours himself a cup he notices Quentin is fiddling with several small squares of paper. His first thought is that this man seems to be single-handedly keeping the Post-It people in business. Then Bond has a chance to see the writing on the pages Quentin is fiddling with and he realizes that they are covered in fine black markings; equations. Is it really possible that Russell carries around his formula for cold fusion on several scraps of paper tucked somewhere on his person?

Bond realizes suddenly that he has no idea where on his person Quentin keeps the pages. They appeared, as if by magic, when Bond had been distracted with the waiter. Keeping his tone light and only mildly inquisitive, he leans forward over the table. "What do you have there?" 

"Something I'm working on," Quentin says, distractedly. Then he realizes that the waiter has gone away and he offers Bond a sheepish smile. "Sorry." Bond watches as the square bits of paper are carefully folded. Quentin shifts in his chair and Bond becomes keenly aware that the younger man is not, as he had initially expected, depositing the formula into a trouser pocket. 

Bond gets a glimpse of pale skin exposed only for a moment as Quentin tucks the folded pages safely in his pants, snug against the skin of his hip. His eyebrows jerk upward and he isn't certain whether to be impressed because he is momentarily startled by the fact that he is aroused. Clearing his throat Bond says, "Something you're working on that you keep in your underwear?" 

"Uh." Quentin freezes the moment he realizes what he has just done, that Bond observed him doing it. Slowly, the younger man turns a striking shade of scarlet. "Yes. I do," he admits. "Sorry."

"No, don't be. I enjoyed watching you put it away."

The teacup Quentin had been reaching for is jostled as the younger man fumbles for it. He takes a hearty swallow and ends-up coughing. Trying to prevent an amused smile from spreading across his face, Bond attempts to ease the tension, perching his elbows on the table as he peers at his dinner companion as if trying to get a better view. "Do you keep anything else in there?" 

"No, I don't," Quentin answers, absurdly prim.

Bond can't help a somewhat lascivious grin. " _That's_ not true."

Green eyes flicker over Bond's face, assessing. It's clear that Quentin has caught the innuendo, just as it is equally clear that he isn't certain if it was intentionally made or not. It looks very much as if the younger man is wondering whether or not it is appropriate to laugh. Bond blinks guilelessly and, as a result, the corner of Quentin's mouth twitches upward cautiously, obviously still shy.

With some sleight-of-hand Bond manages to move his wallet with one hand and summon a passing wait with the other. "A bottle of the Latour '57, please." 

The waiter's glance skims over Bond's casual black shirt and trousers, his scuffed shoes and inexpensive watch, before shifting to Quentin who looks rumpled and painfully young blushing in an oatmeal colored cardigan and simple white button-down. "Sir," the waiter says doubtfully. "That wine is four hundred pounds a bottle."

Quentin's expression is vaguely mortified as he looks at Bond, who takes the opportunity to stand from his chair and reach a hand into his jeans, pulling out the wallet he just placed there and offering a fold of bills. "Then we'll take two," he says, as the waiter scrunches his face in distaste but accepts the money.

"You're insane," Quentin hisses as Bond retakes his seat, but he's laughing and the embarrassed tension is gone. "I can't believe you did that."

They eat dinner and share expensive wine. Usually this is the part that Bond finds difficult or tedious: the feigned interest, manipulating someone in order to get something he needs. Quentin makes it all easy: buoyant enthusiasm that isn't made tedious by oblivious optimism, which tends to wear on Bond's nerves. He can tell that the younger man has struggled and still struggles, that he has faced impossible challenges and risen to overcome them every time. It makes for an easy rapport between them. 

When Quentin begins to open up about his work, "energy research", he is hesitant, almost cautious, as if expecting at any moment to be interrupted and told to stop. Bond can imagine that there are not many people not already fluent in Quentin's field who are willing to listen to someone talk about it. To Bond it sounds almost like a different language, but he asks questions and does his best to understand, and Quentin is eager to explain and expand. 

Though the younger man never speaks of it explicitly, Bond can see in the fleeting shadows that cross Quentin's face, the moments in his excited descriptions where his voice falters – there are not many people who expect his research to amount to anything. Bond wonders how it is that the young scientist can remain so positive, but when he asks all Quentin says is, "I believe in my research. I believe in something that's all around us but hidden from our sight."

They break open the second bottle of wine as the waiter clears their dinner away and in the ensuing lull in conversation it occurs to Bond that he knows exactly where the cold fusion formula is: hidden against Quentin's right hip. It would be nothing at all to convince Quentin to invite him back to the flat, and from there Bond knows the younger man would give him anything he asked for. He can read it in the cautious smile on the man's lips, the glint in his eye. 

Swallowing a sip of wine, Quentin catches Bond looking at him and offers a shy smile. "I can't believe I'm telling you all of this," he says, almost to himself. "I don't know anything about you. I don't even know your name."

It's the opening Bond needs. He'd give his name accompanied by a heated look, he would reach a hand across the table for a cautious touch and incline his head just so, and that would be it. He knew the moment he saw Quentin carrying the sketchbook under his arm that he had been successfully hooked.

Bond finds himself hesitating, his words caught in his throat. He buys time by reaching for his wine glass, but somehow when he speaks he finds himself saying, "…I don't want to tell you my name." It's almost a surprise to hear his voice masked by the South African accent. It feels wrong. 

He shakes his head, wondering what is happening to him. "I don't want to do that. What difference does it make?" He's shell-shocked. Never in the years that he has been working has Bond become emotionally involved with one of his targets. "What's your name?" he deflects.

"Q," Quentin answers. Then smiles and shakes his head. "It's Quentin, really, but you can just imagine… I prefer 'Q'."

With some effort Bond reminds himself that he is here, in Oxford, in this restaurant, at this table with a reason. He smiles. "Now I know everything about you."

Q scoffs. "Because I told you that I prefer to go by a single letter rather than my first name?"

"Mm." Bond sips his wine and then leans forward, taking a deep breath. "You're brilliant, and courageous and you're stubborn. You have a weak heart, and beautiful dreams, and you're not afraid of anything in this world." He remembers a photograph he saw hanging on the other man's wall, a strong family resemblance on the smiling faces, a young Q and an older man, heads tipped together over a chemistry set. He says, "I think you get that from your father."

"How do you know that?" Q breathes.

"You can't cook," Bond continues. "You can't even boil water without a kettle to do the hard part for you. You love fish, and poetry."

Q looks at him quietly for a moment, as if trying to collect himself. "I want to try that," he says, after a moment. "What's your name?"

"No, I don't want you to." Bond pours more wine into Q's glass and holds it out to him. "Drink your wine."

It seems, however, he was only too right when he called Q stubborn. "Tell me," the younger man insists.

"My name is…Thomas More." 

For some reason, a serene little smile blossom on Q's face. "Thomas More," he echoes. 

"I was named after a saint who … who died for his faith."

Q takes another mouthful of wine and then sets his glass aside, shifting forward in his chair to better scrutinize Bond. "Your work is dangerous, it makes you feel alive," he says. Bond finds himself pinned by the intent green gaze. Somehow it has become difficult to breathe. "I love your poems: they move me, and your art. But that's not who you really are." 

Cocking his head to the side, Q's voice becomes hushed and intimate as he says, "You're running away from your past. From an old hurt, I think. But you keep it close to you." A wave of nausea crashes over Bond but Q cuts through it, his hand resting gently atop Bond's. Suddenly it is as if Bond has found the one still point in the universe. Q says, "You don't have to be afraid of who you are."

Whatever Tretiak wants he can get for himself. Bond stands jerkily from the table, grabbing the bottle of wine before he turns and walks out, leaving Q and the fake sketchbook and the job and everything else behind, tossing a handful of money on the bar that will more than cover their meal. No one has ever gotten into his head like that before. Not ever.

It feels dangerous, and Bond is only one job away from retiring, he isn't going to get stupid now. He's going to walk away before any damage is done. He can find a different job, one that doesn't involve any captivating electrochemists, or the Russian mafia for that matter. One that's safer, that doesn't make him feel like he's been cut open, laid bare for anyone to see. One job and he'll be done, and then he never has to talk to anyone like Tretiak again. No more shady business transactions, no more dubious moral decisions, no more grey area. He can live anywhere he wants, do whatever he wants. Or not do it, if that's what he feels like.

If Bond walks away now, though, that's it. He won't have Q, he won't have the formula, and he won't have the three million dollars. Is he throwing that away over a few lucky guesses? "Shit," Bond curses, breaking the wine bottle in half against the corner of a building.

"Hey!" Q's shout follows him as he turns sharply down a side road. Bond tries to pick up speed but he's too late, he's been caught. Q stops him with a gentle hand on his arm, Bond's sketchbook under his arm and a worried expression on his too-open face. "You keep running away from me. I'm sorry I upset you. I didn't mean to …"

Bond leans forward, one hand cupping the back of Q's head as the other tugs him closer. He kisses the younger man before he even realizes what he's doing. It's uncalculated and instinctive, but it has precisely the right effect. "This is completely mad," Q whispers against his lips before leaning forward and opening his mouth to Bond again. "Come back to my place with me."

___________________________________________________

Q has been practical and responsible his entire life. Unlike his peers he never had a rebellious phase, never disobeyed his parents in any significant regard. He's always been brilliant in school, and hopeless everywhere else. He's had relationships before but they were always brief. Somehow, he never failed to enter into them with rose-tinted glasses: this time it will be different, this time it's real, this time it will work.

The simple truth is that he is a lanky, awkward bespectacled nerd who, likely due to his social awkwardness and workaholic habits, has a tragic tendency of forming romantic attachments to people who appeal to him intellectually, but are always more interested in their own work than in him. 

Q will admit that he does sometimes get a bit of tunnel vision when he's near to a breakthrough, but he makes time for the things that are important. At the moment, those important things include his fish and his plants, and mostly he doesn't mind.

Presently, however, he is just a little bit overwhelmed that Thomas even noticed him.

It's a fling; of course Q knows that's what it is. Thomas is a self-admitted traveler and sooner or later he'll move on to some other place undoubtedly more exciting than Oxford. For right now, though, this minute, it's the sort of whirlwind romantic spontaneity that Q has always imagined but had begun to think never happened in real life, or at least, not in his real life. He wants this even if it's only for one night. One perfect date, one fantasy realized, one moment seized, and tomorrow he'll go back to the lab, back to his routine, back to reality. But he'll always have this. 

'This' being Thomas' hands on his body, pulling his cardigan off, unbuttoning his shirt, his belt, his trousers. "Wait," Q says, gasping. "I have to … my heart, I need…"

Thomas pivots smoothly, reaching into the pocket of Q's parka where it's hanging over the back of a chair and retrieves the bottle of heart pills. "Are you okay?" he asks, the pads of his thumbs skimming over Q's cheekbones.

"I just…" Q tries to catch his breath. "Just a second…" He takes his pills and smiles, planting a quick kiss on the corner of Thomas' mouth as he retreats to the washroom. His stupid heart ruins everything, but he refuses to let it ruin this. He is _determined_ to have this.

___________________________________________________

The bathroom door closes and Bond is left, stripped down to his jeans, barefoot and breathless in Q's bedroom. The folded-up white notecards are right there on the dresser. All he has to do is reach out and take them, and then he can pull his clothes back on and leave. Job done.

Except he can't, and he has no idea why. He has only just met the man, but somehow Bond does not want to betray Q. Maybe it's the trust that he sees in those green eyes; maybe it's the determined jut of Q's chin, the stubbornness. Maybe it's the intellect, or the flat filled with poetry and reminder notes and fish. Bond has no idea. It hardly seems to matter, at any rate.

He pulls his mobile from his pocket, opening the secure message service and types a quick note to Tretiak: "to spider, must fly, have better offer." Then he flips the phone closed and tosses it aside.

The bathroom door opens and Q offers a slight smile. "I apologize... My heart…" He's still flushed but his breathing has slowed. He's left his shirt in the bathroom along with his belt, but his trousers are hanging open at his hips and he's rubbing a hand through the back of his hair, looking suddenly awkward and shy.

Bond holds out his hand. "Come here."

Stumbling forward, Q walks directly into the kiss. Bond can feel the tautness draining out of the younger man's body, feels the precise moment that Q pushes aside his embarrassment about his heart and concentrates on the moment, on them. He pushes Bond's trousers off his hips; his hands warm as they ghost along the back of Bond's thighs.

"Get them off," he breathes into Bond's mouth, pushing and guiding until they're sliding onto the unkempt bed. Bond kicks his jeans off as Q curses and moves his laptop onto the floor. "Don't mind the clutter," he says, as if he is showing a friend's parent through his flat for some tea.

"Bugger the mess." Bond strips the last of Q's clothes from him, pitching them haphazardly aside and then, carefully he removes Q's glasses, folding them neatly and setting them onto the nightstand. 

"While you're over there…" Q says, and Bond smirks. He pulls open the nightstand drawer and finds lubricant and an unopened box of condoms.

It's not how Bond imagined it would be. He thought Q would be awkward and shy, blushing but eager to please. Instead, he finds himself pushed down onto the sheets, pinned in place by a suddenly mischievous and entirely knowledgeable bedmate. Q seems to catch his surprise, grinning devilishly as he slicks his palm with lubricant and fists Bond's cock. "Turns out your mind-reading trick didn't reveal _everything_ about me." 

"No," Bond agrees, almost forgetting to maintain his accent. "I wouldn't have guessed you'd be like this."

He can't stop running his own hands over Q's body, up his bent thighs, smoothing along the flat torso, his thumbs brushing across perked nipples and up to the long neck only to follow the same path this time in reverse. Everywhere he touches seems to make Q shiver, murmuring encouragement in monosyllables and low groans. 

It's hasty foreplay, Bond's hands roving, his mouth suckling where it can, nipping at pale skin, and Q rocking his hips, his cock skimming along Bond's belly as he reaches back and opens himself with his fingers. "God, you're beautiful," Bond murmurs and skims his tongue along the skin just behind Q's ear.

Grinning, Q sinks down onto Bond's cock, shifting up and then down taking more of it until, at last, he is fully seated. For a moment they hold completely still, Bond gripped in tight heat, Q's head tipped back, his eyes closed. Then Bond moves, his hands reaching out to hold Q as he rolls them, pinning the younger back into the mattress, sending those long legs splaying wide as the Q laughs, open and carefree.

Bond pulls out and then thrusts in hard, and Q's laugh becomes an exultant exhalation. "Yes," he says, his mouth leaving damp trails along Bond's neck, across his lips. "Don't stop."

Bond can't stop, and he can't let go. "Jesus Chris," he gasps as Q tightens around him. It's as close to a prayer as he's come in a very long while. 

Much later, when they're both spent, Q sleeping in a loose sprawl across the sheets, his soft snores like sighs filling the room, Bond pushes the dark hair away from the younger man's face and thinks about possibilities. Things he's never allowed himself to consider before. 

The muted beeps indicating a waiting message on his mobile pull him out of his thoughts. Carefully, he extracts himself from Q's limbs and searches for his phone, finding it discarded in a pile of his clothes. He opens his messages to find Tretiak's response: "Fly, don't buzz off. I'll double your fee, or send my own boys to take care of the lab-rat."


	3. Chapter 3

> In the grip of its coldest winter to date, Russians are warming to the angry rhetoric of former Communist boss Ivan Tretiak. Now a billionaire oil magnate and leader of his own political party, Tretiak told reporters that the civil unrest engulfing Russia will only worsen unless Reformist president Victor Karpov can overcome the heating-oil shortage that has already killed scores of Russians. In a speech he delivered at his company, Tretiak called on all elements of the Russian army who are opposed to elected government to seize control and end the heating oil crisis.
> 
> **-Channel 4 News, London**  
> 

Soft morning light is filtering in through the sheer curtains. Q lies in bed, drifting slowly out of sleep as he savors the sensation of being bonelessly relaxed and deliciously warm and comfortable. It's the first morning in recent memory that he hasn't snapped into wakefulness worrying about a meeting, or because he had some sort of breakthrough in the night. _Thought_ he had a breakthrough, at least. His work has been slow-going but it's all been worth it, and he's so very close now. Just a few sequencing issues to make certain everything is safe but he's done it. No one can fault him for celebrating a little early.

Q rubs a hand over his eyes, groping for his glasses on the nightstand. "Thomas?" He doesn't expect an answer and isn't really surprised when he receives none. Disappointed, possibly, but not surprised. 

Rolling out of bed with some effort, Q wraps his sheets around himself like a toga and begins shuffling in the direction of his kitchen. It's possible, he considers with a smile, that Thomas might be sitting out in the living room, fully dressed and drinking some fresh brewed tea. Perhaps he even brewed a whole pot and there will be a mug set out for Q. That would be delightful.

The flat is empty. 

"Good morning," he greets his fish, tapping their food out into the tank before switching his kettle on. When he opens his fridge there is a new carton of milk and a cheese Danish still in it's Styrofoam container. It's from Q's favorite coffee shop. He doesn't remember stopping by there and the realization of where it must have come from trumps his curiosity about how Thomas might possibly know his favorite coffee shop. There are an inordinate number of little coffee klatches in Oxford, but this particular one is quite close to Q's flat, probably Thomas picked it out of convenience.

It's a thoughtful treat, at any rate. The Danish is freshly baked and delicious and Q thinks that it's the next best thing to a fresh brewed pot of tea. Certainly better than a bedmate who disappeared with the morning light leaving no trace to show he had ever existed.

Well, there are traces of Thomas about the flat, most notably in the river of Q's clothes that leads him wandering back into his bedroom, passing time until the kettle boils. The bed is rumpled, more so than it usually is, and the lubricant is sitting uncapped beside an opened box of condoms on the night table. The sight makes him smile, feeling oddly proud of himself. 

Finishing off his Danish Q considers the rest of his day. He'll have to shower, and change his sheets. He has no classes or lectures, and he considers taking the day to simply relax, put his feet up, and maybe do some washing up, if anything.

The kettle is hissing and as Q turns back to the kitchen his eyes catch on his notecards folded on his dresser. The sight of them doesn't make him want to rush out to the labs or hunch over them at his desk and start work. They're there waiting for him when he's ready, but a break is well deserved, he thinks, and a long time in coming.

Except something isn't right. The cards look too fresh, too pristine. He re-writes them now and again when the constant handling makes the paper crumbly under his fingers. Those pages are his life's work, he knows them and something is wrong. "Please no," he whispers as he reaches out, picks up one folded piece and unfurls it. "I'm sorry," it reads.

His breath is constricting in his throat, he feels hot and cold at once, and his vision is tunneling as he opens the next card: "I'm sorry", and the next, "I'm sorry" and the next "I'm sorry". 

Six notecards with the same apology. "No. Please, no," Q begs, but the flat is empty and no one is listening.

_______________________________________________________

The first and most important rule that Bond has is this: If he does a job, he gets paid for it.

As it is a fairly simple rule filled with words of a single syllables it should be fairly simple to understand, but over the course of his career there have been times when the person Bond is working for at the time has difficulty comprehending it nonetheless.

Tretiak hired him to do the job for three million dollars, and then promised him three million more to see it through, but the total in Bond's account remains unchanged. 

This is a good thing, Bond tells himself. Just as he needs it most here is the perfect distraction, wrangling six million pounds out of a Russian Mafioso. Better than sitting around his house adjusting to retired life. Better than dwelling.

He took everything from Q: the research that was all on the man's computer hard drive and the formula that was written out on the cards. Bond sent it all to Tretiak, held nothing back lest the man decide that he still had an interest in the young electrochemist. The accusations that Tretiak is making now, that the formula is incomplete is ridiculous.

Bond was hired to steal cold fusion and that's what he did. If his employer is incapable of understanding it, or completing the research, that's hardly Bond's fault, he did his part and for that he expects payment. 

As he attempts to explain this to Tretiak, however, Bond realizes that the man is being intentionally obtuse, trying to keep Bond on the line and in place. Trying, undoubtedly, to tie-up his loose ends. Why payout six million pounds if you can simply kill the thief you hired?

Cutting off the connection, Bond grabs his jacket and leaves the house. He hijacks a car in the garage across the way and blends into afternoon traffic as if he hasn't a care in the world. Turning off the side-road Bond passes a darkly tinted SUV, the front passenger window is rolled down just enough that Bond catches a glimpse of Ilya Tretiak's narrow-eyed glare but the man is looking up at the passing buildings and doesn't notice him. 

Ilya isn't Bond's concern. He's on his way to Moscow to ensure that he at least has something to show for this mess, and to do that he must find Ivan.

_______________________________________________________

He's been in a state of shock for most of the morning, Q supposes that would explain why he feels numb, why he can't remember what happened after he realized his formula had been taken, why he has no idea how long he's been sitting at this desk in Scotland Yard, why he doesn't even remember driving into London.

One moment he was shaking Inspector Mallory's hand, being offered a seat by the man's partner, Inspector Moneypenny, and then Q blinks and suddenly it's almost lunch and Mallory is setting out pieces of paper across his desk, sketches of men's faces. Moneypenny is smiling at him, speaking softly like she thinks Q is about to fall apart, which is possibly true. "Just take a look," she says.

Q looks at each one very carefully. Something in the eyes of the one on the right, something in the jawline in this other one, or the hair of that one, but none of them look like Thomas, except perhaps, "This one," he says, picking up one of the sketches and holding it out. "But without the beard. His hair was different, too and his eyes were blue, not brown like it says here. But otherwise…"

Moneypenny and Mallory share a look, and while Moneypenny takes the sketch and heads off someplace, hopefully to start a global manhunt for the sonofabitch, Mallory looks at Q and clears his throat. There's a sympathetic smile on his face as he says, "You see, we believe they're all the same villain."

"I don't understand," Q says, trying to focus. There's a desk full of faces staring up at him. "They're all him?"

"We believe so, yes."

Q loses track of things again. When he tunes back in Moneypenny has returned and is saying, "We've got a handful of false identities from passports and leases, but not much to go on. It's never personal for him, you see. Often it's difficult to even be certain the witnesses we talk to are describing the same man except…"

"Except he has a certain style," Mallory finishes.

Q nods, though he's not really following. He understands that Thomas, or whatever the bastard's name is, has quite the reputation. That he's done this sort of thing before, and that Scotland Yard has been working on capturing him for years and has come up with what basically amounts to nothing. Cold fusion has been taken from Q, who knows who has gotten hold of it now.

The sketches have been cleared to the side of the desk, and Q glances over that the tidy stack they make. "What are they?" he asks. "The names?"

Again the two inspectors share a look. Q very much wishes they would stop doing that, it makes him feel like a child. Moneypenny shifts, pulling a piece of paper from out of a folder and recites, "Nicholas Owen, Louie Guanella, Peter Damian, Charles Borroneo…." She trails off when Q begins to laugh. "Something we should know?"

"Thomas More," he says, shaking his head. Both inspectors are looking at him blankly, so explains, "They're all Catholic saints."

He isn't thanked for this revelation, and both inspectors keep their expressions flat as if this was a conclusion they had long ago drawn. Mallory jots a note in his notebook, and Q tries not to smirk. Increasingly his confidence in the Yard is falling. Moneypenny smiles that sugar-sweet warm smile and says, "He eluded a hit squad earlier today at Holland Park. There was a bit of a car chase, you might have overheard on the radio. It was quite a mess. Anyway, we think he's probably left the UK. We can…"

"Excuse me," Q blurts, cutting her off and then catching himself. "I'm sorry, I just…I'd like to go home, if we're done here."

"Certainly, if you'd like," Moneypenny replies easily. "We'll arrange for an escort."

Q shakes his head. "No, thank you. That won't be necessary."

"He might come back," she explains gently.

"Has he, though? All these faces of yours, has he ever once returned once he got what he wanted?" The look the inspectors share is answer enough, so Q says, "I think I'll be fine."

"You're refusing protection?" Mallory clarifies.

Involuntarily, Q's fists clench. "If he comes back, he'll be the one needing the protection."

Q leaves Scotland Yard but he doesn't go home.

He was arrogant and reckless, he can admit that. It wasn't that he didn't think his research needed to be protected, quite the opposite. He's spent enough time in academia to hear all the stories about stolen thesis ideas and the like. It's a cutthroat line of work; reputations, careers and awards are all at stake. If it worked, cold fusion would be the sort of thing that would be considered for the Nobel Prize, of course there are people who would steal it.

Q protected his work with a bit of misdirection. His reputation with computers was well known on campus. There had been a brief moment in high school when he imagined he might prefer a career in engineering or computer sciences. His computer would be the most obvious place to keep his research, but he wasn't the only computer genius in the world and he didn't want to spend valuable time updated his security protocols, constantly trying to protect his real life's work.

So he kept just enough security on his computer to suggest he had something worth protecting on it. He saved his basic research notes in the most obvious way possible: in a file titled 'cold fusion', and everything worth taking, he kept on folded cards tucked safely in his pants, against his skin so he would know the moment they left his side.

Q genuinely didn't believe anyone would be so persistent. He'd been prepared for another greedy scientist with their eye on prestige and acclaim not … not whatever Thomas was.

In retrospect, that was probably the point. It's plainly obvious how perfectly Thomas had manipulated him. Notecards. In his underwear, against his damned skin, and it hadn't occurred to him that some outrageously attractive bloke who just _happened_ to be passing through Oxford, who just _happened_ to notice Q out of _everyone_ , wasn't potentially after cold fusion. 

What an idiot he was.

He pulls his laptop from the backseat, scrunching down behind the wheel of his parked Volvo as it boots up. Now that Q knows what the game is, he's ready to make his own move. 

It's quick work to gain backdoor access into Heathrow's passenger lists for the past eight hours. He comes up with two possible names: Isadore Bakanja, and Vincent Ferrer. A bit more typing gets him the passport photographs of both men. He books a ticket for Moscow.

_______________________________________________________

Russia never used to make Bond feel angry. At most he could claim a vague indifference to it. Now it has become synonymous with bad weather, bad luck and bad situations. Presently Bond finds himself weighing the merits of killing Ivan Tretiak and simply calling the whole mess even.

"Mister Tretiak, sir," the bouncer of the club says, dipping his head respectfully and standing aside for Bond to enter. "I didn't see you step out."

"So what?" Bond snarls, deepening his voice and slurring his words in that distinctly Russian accent. "I wanted air. Get out of my way."

The other reason for Bond's bad mood is that he is currently disguised as Ivan Tretiak in order to infiltrate this particular nightclub with as little fuss as possible. It involves wearing one of the most uncomfortable full-beards in combination with a shoulder-length stringy and partially balding wig. Given his present feelings toward Tretiak, every time Bond catches his own reflection in something he feels like ripping his own head off. He is supposed to be enjoying his own retirement, not trudging around this infernal country, braving the red-lit gloom of a seedy nightclub.

There's people dancing at the center of the room, people sipping drinks in the booths scattered about, and people cheering and shouting as they conglomerate around a glass-paneled wall behind which rats are racing. The real Ivan Tretiak is en route to the bathroom and Bond takes his opportunity to infiltrate the man's private room where four leggy women in form-fitting dresses and impossibly tall high-heels are reclining with three of Tretiak's entourage.

"Get out. Get out. I want to be alone," he grumbles, reaching for the bottle of Vodka sitting on the table as he glares. The women pout at him; one runs a hand along his shoulder as she leaves as if hoping he might invite her to stay. The men spring to their feet and hurry out. Bond pulls the curtain closed behind them.

When it swishes aside a moment later it is because Ivan Tretiak has made his way back. Bond waits as the man drops heavily onto the seat, reaching for his glass only to pause when he finally notices Bond. "What is this?" Then Ivan's expression changes, undoubtedly putting the pieces together.

Bond pulls out his knife before Ivan manages to shout for his guards. "Do you know who I am?" Bond asks. "I'm the thief you tried to cheat." With his free hand, Bond reaches for his mobile and hands it over, a number already selected on the screen. "This is your accountant," he says, when Tretiak cautiously accepts the phone. "Talk to him."

When Tretiak finally disconnects the call Bond takes back his phone with a smile. "That wasn't too difficult, was it?" He leaves Tretiak cursing and snarling behind him, pausing by a man he recognizes from among Tretiak's bodyguards and says, "There's an impostor in there. Get him out." Then he exits the club and returns to his hotel.

Bond has what he came for but as long as he's in Moscow he runs the risk of getting caught by Tretiak. Wasting no time he sheds his disguise and checks out of his hotel. He's done. Over fifty million of hard currency in his account and he's officially retired. From this point forward he can do whatever he wants. 

"Have a safe flight, Mister Ferrer," the hotel desk clerk says with a warm smile.

"Thank you." Bond takes the receipt she offers him and then makes his way to the hotel bar for a celebratory drink. He has some time to kill before his flight.

Sliding onto a bar stool, he flags down the waiter. "Vodka martini, please." As the bartender moves off Bond takes a cursory glance of the room. It's a small space, intimately lit and there are a handful of people, couples mostly, occupying a few of the tables on the far side.

There's only one other person sitting at the bar a few seats over. Bond notices the shoes first. Close-fitting black leather boots that stop just slightly above the ankle. They only draw his attention because the right boot is fidgeting, tapping up and down in nervous agitation. 

From there, however, Bond can't help but scan upward. Soft, dark grey trousers covering lean legs, a deep plum cardigan over a grey-black button-down that has a faint sheen, a loosened tie. He notes the long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the bar top and it's the fingers more than anything else that make him hesitate, his Martini stalled halfway to his mouth. "Q?" 

Q turns to look at him and Bond feels a momentary, inexplicable rush of relief and pleasure to see the young scientist. This is quickly overcome by common sense. It is very evident that Q is furious. "Nice hair," Q says, his eyebrows raised and his expression frosty. "Is it a wig?"

Bond shifts to the stool on Q's right, hoping that this situation might be contained. "Let me explain."

"That's not necessary. I'm certain I know _exactly_ what's happening here."

He's probably right so Bond lets it lie, jumping instead to the most relevant and perplexing issue: "How did you find me?"

Q's fingertips are still beating out an agitated rhythm on the bar top. "Please," he says, as if Bond has just insulted his intelligence by implying it might have been difficult to track Bond anywhere. With a huff, the younger man continues, "Two men with saints names flew out of Heathrow yesterday. Isadore Bakanja is a short balding African, but _Vincent Ferrer_ …"

"…is named after a saint who betrayed his closest friend."

Instantly, Q's fingers stop tapping, but Bond notices the younger man's nostrils flare, his teeth plainly grinding. "I want my cards back," Q demands.

"You flew all this way for your cards?"

"Yes. Of course."

Bond finishes off his martini and then faces Q squarely. "No. I don't think so." 

"Oh really." Q looks unimpressed. "Why did I, then?"

"I think you flew here because you're in love." 

Bond holds Q's gaze, noting how the younger man's expression changes. He's flushed and his eyes are bright but Bond doesn't think that's out of anger anymore. They can work this out. Q will understand.

Then the young scientist starts to laugh, harsh and maybe a little hysterical, a giggling eruption of sound. "You arrogant, delusional _bastard_."

Bond rests his hand carefully atop the other man's forearm. "…Q"

"Don't call me that," Q hisses, his laughter abruptly cutting off and his anger glittering and sharp, returned in full force. "Don't you dare."

"Please, Q…"

Q slaps him clean across the face, a sharp pain like a whip cracking. "Did you hear what I said? Don't ever call me that again." Q shakes his head. Bond thinks the other man looks as if he's caught somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. "Who _are_ you?"

"Nobody has a clue, me least of all." Cheek stinging, Bond waves down the bartender and asks for another drink. 

"Well that's very philosophical, and terribly convenient." Q lapses into a short silence, and then asks, "Why did you do it? Why would you steal cold fusion? It's free." 

"Six million reasons." 

"Is that all?" Q scoffs.

Movement at the front of the hotel diverts Bond's attention. Three men he recognizes from among Tretiak's henchmen are striding through the front entrance. He reaches out again, taking a firmer grip on Q's forearm until he is certain he has the younger man's full attention. "You have to get away from me. Do you understand?"

"I don't _'have'_ to do anything."

Bond shakes his head, his gaze shifting from the three men who are clearly searching for someone, back to Q. "For your own safety, I need…."

"Fuck that," Q snaps. "Tell me why you lied to me."

" _I_ lied to _you_? _You_ almost got me _killed_!"

Q blinks, startled. "What?"

Rolling his eyes, Bond says, "The person who hired me says the formula doesn't work."

"Everything you need to know in order to make cold fusion work is on those cards. It's hardly _my_ fault if your employer isn't an electrochemist."

One of the henchmen is by the front desk, another is blocking off any chance of escape through the main entrance. Bond has momentarily lost track of the third, but finds him again making his way into the bar area. He lowers his voice and turns his back to the door. "Preen later, Q. Right now, you have to go. You don't know what you're dealing with here."

"I'm an Oxford graduate, an electrochemist and a genius, Mister _Whoever_. I promise you I'll catch on quick enough. I'm not going _anywhere_ until I'm good and ready." 

Q finishes saying this at the precise moment that a wide, heavy hand drops down on Bond's right shoulder and a gruff Russian voice declares, "You're coming with us." There's a brief moment where Bond thinks it might just be possible that Tretiak hasn't noticed that Q has entered the country. Maybe the henchmen are simply interested in Bond.

Then the man wraps a thick hand around the back of Q's neck and says, " _Both_ of you."

_______________________________________________________

When he was a little boy Q's parents were going to take him along on a trip to Japan but Q's doctors, of which there were many, all insisted that it was too risky. His heart made lots of things impossible for him; Q has never been anywhere outside of England, has never played sports or even a game of tag, even public speaking sometimes causes him difficulties.

He has no idea why he ever thought going to Moscow and chasing after a thief might be a reasonable course of action. Q suspects that if, at any point along the way, he had actually stopped to think about what he was doing, he would have been against it. As it was, he never once stopped and so he never had the opportunity to regain his senses. 

He managed the flight just fine, with the aid of one of his heart pills and a glass of scotch. Q's doctors also advised against drinking in conjunction with his medication, but as he arrived in Moscow without any difficulties he feels as if he should write them a letter denouncing them as idiots. He even handled his confrontation with Thomas – Vincent -- whatever his name is just fine, thank you.

Of course, that was before the giant burly Russian men with guns had muscled him out of the hotel and into the back of a van. His hands are fastened behind his back in bloody handcuffs, which is also a new experience, and an unwelcome one. He's freezing cold because he'd driven straight from the Yard to Heathrow, not bothering to stop and pack a bag, or at least pick-up a proper coat. So here he is in his bloody tweed coat rather than his parka, with no gloves and no hat and … and his vision is tunneling and he can't think clearly and really, he came all this way, proved cold fusion despite the odds, got on an airplane despite doctors' advice and now he's going to die here, in bloody Russia, in the back of a van with a man who has no name whatsoever and delusions of bloody sainthood….

"I can't." Q realizes suddenly that he's been repeating this for some time. "I can't…"

"Shh," Thomas or Vincent or whoever is saying. "Shh. Just breathe. Q, stay with me. What do you need?"

"My heart," Q tries to explain. "I can't. … I have…." He can't catch his breath, can't think straight, can't take any more of this.

"I know," Thomas says. "Keep breathing. Talk to me."

When he glances up from his own hands, which he has been holding over his eyes, Q notices that Thomas' breaths are coming in great rolling inhales that puff his chest up, and heaving exhales that seem to bow the man forward. He spends a moment trying to mimic the man's inhales and exhales, and ends-up panicking over his own imminent death when he starts coughing and it feels like he will never taste oxygen again. The entire car is spinning and there's a loud bang that Q thinks is probably the men with guns coming round to kill him with their gunfire even though his own bloody heart is killing him _just fine, thank you_ , and the entire world is becoming bitingly cold, so cold so _very_ quickly that he thinks maybe he's already dead, trapped inside his own body as it starts to wither away.

His coughing eases for a moment and Q returns to himself long enough to realize that the 'bang' was the sound of his own body falling off its perch on the bench. He's lying in an awkward contortion on the metal floor of the truck, his wrists pressing uncomfortably against the sharp metal of the handcuffs. "Q," Thomas is saying. "Q! It's all right. You need to calm down and breathe." 

It feels like a struggle worthy of one of Hercules' labors, but he manages to pull himself off the ground, bracing his forehead on Thomas' knee as he tries to catch his breath, tries to stop the world from spinning apart around him. 

"How many pills do you need?" 

"They took my pills."

"No. I palmed them from your pocket. How many?" Q doesn't understand what Thomas is saying. The scratchy-soft fabric of the man's trousers feels good against his cheek, grounding. Someone is asking him about numbers so he begins to count.

Suddenly his perch shifts, not enough to dislodge him, but Q becomes aware of a weight settling on his shoulder, heat like a furnace roaring in the right side of his face and neck. When he squints open his eyes he realizes that Thomas is bent over him, his head resting against Q's shoulder. "Are you with me?" he asks, and Q manages a shaky nod. "I have your pills. Tell me how many you need."

"I need one. No, two. I need … " he starts coughing, and then Thomas is shifting and Q is dislodged from his comfortable perch completely. 

He tries to find the breath to complain but in the next moment Thomas says, "I have two. In my right palm." He's shifting awkwardly on the bench, moving to sit sideways so his hands, that are also cuffed behind his back, are facing Q, the man's right hand stretched flat, with two round little pills sitting just there, at the center of his palm. 

Q balks. "How do I know it's not poison?" 

Oh god, he thinks to himself. He's being irrational. It's a symptom he knows. A part of him still clasping desperately at logic and reason feels silly to hear himself saying these things, but most of him is entirely certain that this is some sort of elaborate plot to murder him. "I don't even know who you are. How do I know those are my pills…?"

"Q." Thomas' voice is steady and warm. "They're your pills. Now take your medicine like a good boy. Right from my hand."

There's a brief moment of rationality that descends on him, and Q uses it to glare. "You insufferable, arrogant, _prig_."

Thomas meets his accusing stare head on, eyes impossibly bright and blue. " _Trust me._ "

God help him. It's ridiculous, but somehow Q does trust this man. He shuffles forward on his knees and bends forward, eating the pills out of Thomas' hand and swallowing them down dry from years of practice. Then he collapses down onto his arse and tries to catch his breath, waiting for them to start to work. 

He doesn't know how much time passes, but it doesn't feel terribly long before Q has stopped coughing and gasping for breath, becoming aware that somewhere during his distraction Thomas has shifted their positions, likely in an effort to provide, albeit limited, support. At any rate, Q's heart no longer feels as if it is about burst out of his chest, and though Q is still certain that he is about to die, he is equally certain that this is because he has been taken hostage by men with automatic weapons and not because he is still feeling paranoid. 

When he glances up Thomas raises his eyebrows. "Better?" 

Q's heart is still racing, though he is rather embarrassed to realize this is because he's now sitting in the V of Thomas' legs, the back of his neck braced on Thomas' left thigh, and he just ate out of the man's palm. He's mortified, and also rather inappropriately aroused.

Rather than explain any of this to Thomas, however, Q simply nods and tries to get himself under control. Which is why he almost jumps out of his skin when Thomas flashes him a devil's grin and says, "While you're down there…"

"What?" Q squawks. "I'm not…!" He skitters back to the far side of the truck.

Thomas pauses in the middle of finishing his statement, knowing amusement shining in his eyes as he says, "Get the pocket knife out of my boot."

Q glances down to the man's left boot where there is a faint glint spurring out of the back heel. "Oh," he says. "Of course."

_______________________________________________________

Bond isn't a doctor but he's almost certain that Q shouldn't be running around so soon following an attack. He's weak and exhausted, that much is obvious, but he hasn't made a single complaint. It's not as if they have a choice, at any rate. If Tretiak's men catch up to them Bond will be shot and killed, and Q will be captured. He isn't certain which fate is worse; even if Q cooperates fully it's unlikely Tretiak will let the young scientist go. Bond keeps them moving at a brisk pace.

"Why are they after me?" Q asks as he follows Bond around the corner.

"How closely do you follow the news?" Bond asks, glancing over. When Q looks at him somewhat blankly Bond is remembers that he is speaking to a man who has to write post-it notes lest he forget to eat or change out of his pajamas before leaving his flat, what are the odds he remembers to turn on the radio or television in time for the news. Taking a chance, Bond says, "I was hired by Ivan Tretiak."

"Oh," Q interrupts eagerly. "That name sounds familiar." His expression plainly reads: 'See? I know things!'

Bond smirks, preparing to make a retort when a siren whirs, it's getting closer. Hurriedly he shoves Q up against the wall of a corner shop, pressing their bodies close as he kisses the younger man, deep and wet, his knee between Q's thighs. A second later, Q's hands come up, his fingers tangling in Bond's hair as he moans, rolls his hips against Bond's leg and starts kissing back rather enthusiastically.

The moment the sirens recede Bond steps away. "What?" Q asks, breathless and dazed. "What?"

Bond catches his breath and keeps walking, picking up as if there had never been any interruption at all. "Tretiak essentially owns this city, including the police. He wants you because right now you're the only person who knows how to make cold fusion work. We have to convince him that he doesn't want anything from you."

"Okay," Q says, and then grabs a fistful of Bond's jacket, jerking him to a stop. "What do _you_ want from me?"

The answer should be simple. It isn't.

Bond finds himself leaning back into Q's warmth, kissing the man again this time slower. He risks only a brief moment, conscious always that they are exposed standing on the side of a busy street. "Are you certain the formula works?" 

Q offers him an exasperated look. "Don't be stupid. Of course." Then his gaze shifts and he yanks Bond close again. "Kiss me." There are two policemen walking in their direction, and so Bond pushes Q back into the wall, their mouths locked until he can be certain the police are gone. 

"It's just a question of the order," Q admits after casting a suspicious look down the road. "The sequencing, I'm still working on that. And I should say that if you want me to complete my life's work just to hand it over to a tyrant I won't cooperate."

Catching hold of the man's wrist, Bond leads him off the road, up a set of cement steps leading to a park area. "Tretiak will find you. He found me, and that's a difficult thing to do."

Q tugs gently on his hand until Bond glances back, then he raises his eyebrows and points out, " _I_ found you." 

They've made peace out of necessity, Bond reminds himself. It wasn't all that long ago that Q was smacking him across the face. It's not the moment to start working through any of this mess except for the most pressing piece of it: getting Tretiak off their tail. Bond gets them walking again and asks, "What do you need to make this work?"

For a moment Q's eyes shift away, and Bond has countless moments in which to imagine any number of scenarios where Q runs away, or refuses to cooperate. Then the man's green eyes fix back on Bond and he says, "I need some time. And a quiet place to work where I don't have to worry about men with guns running in and shooting me."

Bond nods. "That can be arranged."

_______________________________________________________

People are streaming into the train station, eager to leave the city and reach friends or relatives in the countryside where they can chop trees for firewood. There is no heat in Moscow. There is anonymity in the crowd, and whereas usually he would find trains preferable for quick escapes the weather makes it a very bad idea. Bond needs a plan, which means he needs money and passports, both of which he has stashed in a locker as a safety precaution. Rule four: always have an exit strategy in place.

They navigate through the pressing crowd as Bond says, "Two hours," repeating the scientist's rough estimate on how long it will take to finish the sequencing. "That's enough time to get our passports together and get married." He reaches his locker, entering the code quickly and pulling it open. 

"What?" Q sputters. "I didn't think they did that sort of thing here."

Bond is not thinking about Russia, he has no intention of leaving Q's side when they get back to England. He finds the passport he was looking for and holds it out to his companion. "I want you to be Mister Martin de Porres."

Q takes the passport as Bond turns back to the locker. He's got emergency money in here that he keeps along with weapons, clothes. Anything he might need to make a quick getaway. "You're not Martin," Q says softly.

"No, I am not." Bond picks up a bag and debates whether he needs it.

"Who are you?"

The question is softly spoken, but the tone gives Bond pause. He closes the locker door partially so he can see Q properly and says, "I'm no one. I don't have a name. I don't have a home. I don't have family." The look Q fixes him with is so intense it's overwhelming. After a moment, Bond turns back to the locker so he won't have to face it any more. 

Clearing his throat he says, "When we get back to England we can work on this together. We'll market cold fusion to the world and make a fortune…" It's meant to force some sort of response from Q, since the young scientist has been so adamant that he isn't interested in the profiting from his research. At first Bond had thought this merely naïve idealism, that Q was saying such things because he had no concept of just how much money he could stand to make. The bitter part of himself posited that the moment Q got an offer, he'd feel markedly different. Increasingly, however, Bond thinks that Q is saying he isn't interested because he genuinely isn't interested in selling his research. 

When there is no response to his comment Bond closes the locker door and realizes that Q is no longer standing with him. As he scans the crowd Bond spots his ruffled dark curls and grey wool coat. He's moving slowly, which is a relief. At least he has more sense than to draw attention to himself.

Q spots Ilya at the same moment Bond does, his steps faltering. Since Q has never encountered the man before, Bond can only assume that Ilya exudes his bad intentions through his sneering little grin, the gun that he is barely managing to keep hidden beneath his opened coat, and the presence of two bulky men flanking him. Q breaks into a sprint heading in the opposite direction and Bond stops watching and moves.

Racing up the steps at the far side of the station he arrives just in time to see Q round a corner at full-tilt, directly into Ilya's grasp. He fights, kicking and thrashing until the Russian pulls a knife and then Q goes limp and entirely still, his hands gripping Ilya's forearms but no longer trying to yank them away. Behind them, out the window of the station Bond can see a black SUV and knows that Ilya intends to drag Q out to it, bring him back to his daddy like a good little boy.

Lurching forward, Bond knocks the knife away from Q with his right hand as he strikes out with his foot, sending the Russian staggering backward, his momentum carrying him down into the crowd.

"Christ," Q gasps, as Bond checks him over carefully, making certain he is unhurt. "Who was that?"

Assessment completed, Bond curls his fingers around the lapels of Q's coat and yanks him forward until their noses are separated by mere inches, Q's green eyes wide but focused. "If you want to make it out of this alive, don't ever leave my side again." Then he drags Q out of the train station and into the crowds.

Bond keeps them moving, but there's only so much ground they can cover when they are moving against the flow of people around them. When they've cleared enough distance from the train station and the throngs being to diminish Bond hooks his arm over Q's shoulders after flipping both their coat collars up. They cross the street.

"One shag doesn't automatically give you the right to molest me and drag me about like a doll," Q mutters darkly to himself.

"One night, not one shag," Bond corrects. "If I recall correctly. This way." They climb over a rail and drop down to a narrow cement path sheeted with ice, right alongside the river. 

The moment his feet touch the ground again Q slips and nearly goes sliding right into the water. "Oh, this is brilliant. The one day I'm not in the boots with the nice rubber soles is the one day I desperately require traction."

It's slow going, slip sliding along the narrow path. Ahead, there's a thick spill of ice hanging like a stalactite over the lip of the bridge, obscuring a fair portion of the path beneath. "Stop up there," Bond says. Ilya is persistent and will be searching the area. This is as good a place as any to wait. 

Q reaches their destination first, ducking quickly beneath the overhang, but as Bond moves to follow he loses his footing. Q lurches forward, his hands pulling Bond up, preventing him from landing on his face, but in the slip-sliding dance that ensues, his heart pills fall out of Bond's pocket and roll across the ice. 

"Leave them," Q hisses. The little plastic bottle plops into the river and Bond follows right after them. "You idiot!" Q accuses from beneath the shelter as Bond, entirely soaked and still in the river, holds up the pill bottle, triumphant. 

With one arm braced on the slippery edge he starts to haul himself out of the river when the top of Ilya's head becomes visible just over the side of the bridge. Bond puts a finger to his lips and motions Q, who had been coming out of hiding to help, to step back, and then forces himself to take a long inhale and duck beneath the water.

It is freezing. It was freezing even before he threw himself into the water, and now that he's thoroughly drenched it is infinitely worse. He tries every trick he knows to keep himself conscious and alert as he waits, holding his breath, staring up through the ripples of the river to where Ilya is leaning over the bridge, directly above Q and the little ice cave. 

When Ilya's head disappears, Bond counts to three before pulling himself up. He's shivering and can barely think straight and when he tries to tell Q that they need to stop some place where he can warm up or change clothes, nothing comes out. His teeth are chattering too much.

"Idiot," Q is hissing as he manhandles Bond out of the water and over to the steps leading away from the riverside path, back to the street. Q chivvies, needles and insults him until they make it, most of Bond's weight braced by the younger man, across the road and into the first available place, which appears to be an apartment building.

"Does nothing work in this country?" Q asks as he jabs his finger at the lift button. Bond tries to explain that this building is old, which means the elevator was probably made of wood and so has probably been dismantled and burned, but his teeth just keep knocking and gritting together and Q doesn't seem to understand the Morse code, just keeps cursing under his breath. "I can't haul you up all these stairs by myself." 

Bond raises a finger, pointing at the woman who has just walked in, but Q keeps on ignoring him in favor of rubbing circles on Bond's back with one hand and with the other, jabbing uselessly at the elevator button.

"What are you doing here?" the woman asks.

"Oh, thank God," Q exclaims as he turns them about to face her. She wearing a cheap fur coat, uncomfortably high heels and her hair is dyed blond. A prostitute. Bond doubts she'll be willing to help and tries to tell Q that they should keep moving, go someplace else. Q is already saying, "Please, we're British. We ran afoul of your mafia who are now chasing us, with guns, and my idiot friend fell in the river and …"

He is cut off when the woman smiles and starts to laugh. "Sounds like you're having a bad day."

Q nods. "A bit of one. You could say that."

They haul Bond up the stairs, Q on one side and the prostitute on the other. He'd very much like to make a joke but he's too busy chattering and curling in on himself, his fingers and toes clenched into uncomfortable claws that make it difficult to balance.

"There is a safe place here," the woman explains as they walk. "It was built to escape the secret police." There are no doors on any of the apartments; Bond thinks they must have suffered the same fate as the elevator. The building's tenants are clustered together, sheets and towels strung-up for privacy. They are led to a room at the back, a single bare mattress on the floor, a dresser, and not much else. "Right here," she says, pulling the dresser aside to reveal an inset crawlspace.

She passes them a blanket and some dry clothes as Q manhandles Bond inside, then she tells them to be quiet and pushes the dresser back into place.

Bond lies there quietly as Q strips him down efficiently; his body spasming with shivers, feeling unaccountably modest, which is grossly unlike him. He imagines that it has something to do with the vaguely purple color of his skin, the way he is curled up like a shrimp, his hands like hooks. "I hope you weren't terribly attached to this suit," Q says once he has stripped Bond down into nothing, bundling him in the blanket as he sorts through the clothes.

"Body…" Bond tries to say. "Body…" 

Q waves a hand. "Yes, I know. Just a moment please." He pulls dry socks over Bond's clenched feet, gets him mostly dressed in clean pants and trousers and a thick grey sweater that he pulls over Bond's head and hooks his arms through, but doesn't pull down over his chest. "Are you with me?" Q asks, re-bundling the blanket over Bond as he strips off his own wool jacket and cardigan, unbuttoning his grey shirt with fumbling fingers. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" Bond manages to get out.

"Tell me your name." Q rips his tie over his head and then slips under the covers, shifting until his bare chest presses, searing hot, against Bond's. "Better?" 

"Bond," James says, burrowing deeper into the warmth. "James Bond."

"You're joking." Q's breath is a warm puff of air against Bond's throat.

"No."

"Tell me something else."

Bond's thoughts are whirling around, jumping backwards and forwards, he isn't certain what he's speaking out loud and what he's merely thinking to himself. "I'm an orphan." He hears Q echo the word and knows that, at least, was verbalized. "I used to pretend I was a knight – a Templar knight. I would read about them. The priest didn't like that."

"You were raised in a convent school." Bond can feel the smile pressed against his skin. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Vesper," Bond says. "At the orphanage, I was breaking into the girl's dormitory, we were going to escape. There were dogs. …She fell. I remember her screaming…"

His head is filled with the sound of her, but he knows that the warm breath on his skin, the hands on his body and the chest pressed against his own all belong to Q. The silence stretches, but then Bond feels Q's hands on his face and opens his eyes. He can't hear Vesper anymore. He can't see her falling. Everything is quiet. "How old were you?" 

"Eight?" Bond wonders. "Ten…" He lets his hands wander along the smooth curve of Q's naked back, dips his head down until his forehead rests in the crook of the other man's shoulder and then, because the skin is bare there as well, he presses his mouth against Q's neck.

"Don't change the subject," Q whispers. Bond sucks harder. "James," he says. "James. This isn't a good time. We can't get comfortable. If you're feeling better, then put some clothes on."

Bond has managed to unclench his feet enough to shove them back into his shoes, Q insists on keeping the blanket wrapped over them both like two children under a makeshift fort. "Your teeth have stopped chattering. Mostly."

"Mm," Bond agrees. "I recover quickly."

"Not the first frozen river you've hurled yourself into?" 

"No." Bond inspects his soaked coat long enough to pull the other man's heart pills from the pocket, then he tosses it aside.

"It's a very nice coat," Q says, taking the pills as Bond offers them but looking at the crumpled mess of fabric.

"It's soaked with water. It won't do me any good."

Q finishes re-buttoning his own clothes and then pulls Bond close. "How long do you think we can stay here?"

That question is answered ten minutes later when Ilya's distinctive voice echoes through the grates of the apartment: "Show me where they are and I will pay you in American money! Five hundred dollars for the British bastards hiding in this building!"

"Will they turn us in, do you think?" Even as he asks the question, Q is shifting toward the entrance.

"These people are desperate." Bond isn't going to hang around and take a chance. They make their way out of the hideaway to the staircase only to walk right into one of Ilya's henchmen. Their only option is the roof, which they reach after racing up five floors. Q's panting and stumbling but Bond spots none of the signs that indicate an attack, and for his part the sprint is waking his body up. Warming him.

Once they're on the roof, though, there's nowhere to go. They're trapped. Racing to the edge, Q looks down and cocks his head. "There's a building not far down. We might be able to jump."

Without bothering to gauge the distance Bond grabs Q's arm and drags him back from the edge. "We're not jumping," he says, his voice hoarse.

Briefly Q looks as if he might argue but only for a moment, then understanding washes over his face and he asks, "What do you suggest?"

There's a grey metal door with a little plastic sign that warns of danger. When Bond pries the door open he finds some sort of drainpipe that run all the way down, directly to the sewers. The building is not tall, which means it's not a far climb to the bottom. Bond jumps into the open air between the roof and the pipe, catching onto it and shimmying down. "Come on."

Q eyes him dubiously. "I'll have you know that I have _two_ PhDs."

"I'll have you know there are men with _AK-47s_ coming after us." With a long-suffering sigh Q hops.

As they work their way down they can hear shouts coming from the roof, but by the time Ilya flings open the tiny door and finds them they are three quarters of the way down. He fires his gun blindly down at them anyway, and Bond reaches up to grip Q's ankle and pulls. They drop the rest of the distance, landing with a splash in sewer water and Bond tugs them out of range of the sporadic weapons fire.

"This really better not be what I think it is," Q bemoans as they walk through the ankle deep water.

Laughing, Bond shakes his head. "It's not."

"Thank Christ. I keep thinking this day can't possibly get any worse, but that would have done it."

"If we head east we'll reach the Embassy," Bond says, stifling a laugh. 

He has a plan, and the first and arguably the most important part is getting Q someplace safe. Right now, that means getting him to the British Embassy. After that, they part ways. Q has expressly stated that he does not want cold fusion to end up in Tretiak's hands, which means Bond has a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it. 

They walk for ten minutes before something hisses at them from the darkness, "You're late." She steps out of the shadows, dark clothes, tall boots and a gun hanging in a holster at her waist. 

Q looks at Bond with an expression that rather eloquently conveys: "Oh look, there's a woman living in a sewer."

Bond hopes that his look is just as eloquent: "Welcome to Russia."

"You said six o'clock," the woman is saying, and seems to be directing her attention to Q. With another questioning glance Q shrugs his shoulders just slightly and then steps forward.

"Yes, well. I got held up," Q says.

"Mm." The woman glances over at Bond and smirks, her assumption plain in the leer she offers him. "Very pretty. I like the blond ones, too. This way." Q offers Bond a sheepish shrug and follows her through a metal door in the tunnel that has a sign hanging on it: "Maintenance". The room inside is large and crammed with stolen and forged art. It's like it might belong in the National Gallery. 

"I have other interested parties, you know," the woman explains, talking to them over her shoulder as she navigates the masterpieces. "Apparently the Virgin of the Damned is a very popular piece."

"Apparently," Q hums. He spots a Turner forgery and catches Bond's eye, nodding pointedly at it. "I'd like to see it before we talk price." Bond suspects the Oxford academic is cooperating with the art thief because she's wearing a form-fitting leather jacket with a Heckler and Koch MP5K submachine gun strapped across her shoulder, to say nothing of the Walther at his hip. Bond goes along with it because he wonders what Q will do next.

When the woman pulls aside a drop cloth to reveal the painting in question, Q cants his head to one side. "Yes, well," Q says, a moment's consideration. "I seem to have gone off art. I've an interest in cartography now. What do you think, darling?" He smiles what Bond thinks must be his most innocent smile, and pats a hand on Bond's chest.

Bond narrows his eyes but plays along. "Mm. Something interesting."

The woman looks between them suspiciously. "Cartography."

"Yes, you know." Q waves his hand as he says, "Maps and such."

"You want interesting maps."

Q nods at her. "Yes, something like, oh, I don't know…"

"A map of these tunnels," Bond offers.

"Right!" Q flashes a bright smile and Bond can at once tell that the woman knows they're game but is nevertheless charmed. Q seems to have that effect on people. "How about a map of these tunnels to…what about the British Embassy. I'd pay for that."

She smirks at him and lets the drop cloth fall over the painting. "I might have what you're looking for."

Her name is Alexa Frankeivitch, and she wants ten thousand dollars up front for the map of the tunnels. Bond argues her down to seven. As they walk through the tunnels Alexa asks Q why she lets 'his boy' talk so much. While Bond tries to puzzle how, of the two of them, she managed to mistake _Bond_ for the kept boy, Q waves a dismissive hand and says, "He does my negotiating for me. He's better at it."

"You think so?" Alexa asks. "If it had been you making the deal I would have done it for a kiss."

They walk through the darkness, guided by the singular beam of Alexa's flashlight. They're making good time and Bond thinks they must be quite close. Suddenly, Alexa comes to a halt and looks about with a puzzle moue. Q follows her turning gaze as if he expects something might be about to jump out at them from the shadows.

Bond has other suspicions. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says. "It's a complicated route, that's all."

"In Russia, _everything_ seems to be complicated," Q mutters, obviously trying to be quiet, but the sewer has superb acoustics. Alexa laughs.

"I thought you said you knew these tunnels," Bond asks. 

She raises slender eyebrows at him. "I do. I know them like the back of an Omega Seamaster watch."

Q blinks, perplexed. Bond glances down at his wrist. Alexa flashes her teeth. "How about a kiss?" Bond tries.

She opens and closes her hand impatiently. "The watch." 

It's too big for her narrow wrist, but looks strangely appropriate. The moment she fastened it in place she turns to the right where a round door is sealed shut with a circular handle. "There we are."

Bond moves over to inspect the door. "Are you certain?" 

"Very," she says, spinning the handle and opening the passage. "It's the water main. They shut it down for the afternoon during the winter and turn it back on in," she grins broadly as she checks her new watch. "Five minutes. Plus or minus."

"Five minutes?" Q asks.

Alexa shrugs. "Plus or minus. The third opening is under your embassy."

Q actually thanks her, and Alexa smiles and waves before sealing the door behind them. Bond starts counting the minutes off in his head. They make it to the third door in three minutes, only to find it sealed off and impossible to open. "We have to go back," Bond says.

Q huffs. "Of course. Naturally." 

The second door is open. As Q climbs up the ladder Bond hears the telltale rush of water roaring toward them. They close the lock on the water main just as the water spills through. "Four minutes fifty-two seconds," Q remarks dryly.

There's a narrow ladder leading up to a manhole cover and Bond climbs it, nudging the cover aside just slightly in order to see where they have popped up. As it turns out, they are directly opposite the British Embassy, underneath a parked car. There are people shouting and milling about the street, yelling at the Embassy in general because the lights are on and clearly the people inside are not freezing to death. Bond sees the familiar uniforms of the British army and is gauging the distance to the gate when someone steps out of the car parked above them. The boots, if not the cane, is immediately recognizable. 

He slides the cover back in place and crouches down. "Slight complication."

"Good. I was just thinking all of this has been too easy."

_______________________________________________________

"We're a hundred yards from the Embassy," Bond explains. "There's a car parked just above us." He pops up to double-check his assessment of distance and also to keep an eye on Ilya. The man is not leaving the vicinity of his vehicle. Bond pulls his knife from his boot and slices the gas main before ducking back down to Q.

"Listen, I'm going to create a diversion. You'll have ten seconds to run from here to the gate. They'll open it when they see you coming."

"Okay," Q says with a decisive nod. Then he hesitates. "Just a moment. When will I see you again?"

"I'll find you."

They both climb out from the sewer, hunkering beneath the SUV. "Get ready," Bond mouths, waiting until Q has shuffled as close to the edge of their shelter as he dares. Bond slices the gas line of the truck, letting the gasoline spill down into the sewer below and over the road. With a nod at Q he rolls outs from underneath the truck, standing up directly in Ilya's line-of-sight on the opposite side of the vehicle. 

There's a split second where Ilya doesn't recognize Bond, who is standing in the open and without a disguise. Bond lets his eyes shift to the left, where Q is standing just behind Ilya, barely visible and looking back at Bond as if he's trying to memorize his face.

Then Ilya tackles Bond to the ground, landing three punches in quick succession before he pauses, realizes that Bond wasn't traveling alone and is, in fact, not the priority. Bond can't help grinning as the Russian jerks around just in time to see Q complete his sprint, his legs carrying him quickly across the distance as he shouts and waves and the British soldiers pull open the gate and welcome him to safety.

When Ilya turns back his eyes are wide, and he snarls. Bond's grin only grows. "Too bad. You just missed him."

"I'm going to kill you," Ilya says, pulling his gun from his pocket.

"You mean you don't want to know where the money is hidden?" 

Ilya hesitates. "Money?"

"Tretiak's," Bond says as he carefully fishes his lighter from his pocket. "Yours. Your father has been stashing billions of dollars away for a rainy day. I know where it is."

There's flicker of uncertainty in Ilya's eyes, his gun wavers. "Where is it?"

Bond strikes a flame and pitches his lighter at the SUV with one hand as the other fists the front of Ilya's coat, dragging him forward into a vicious head-butt. "As if I would tell you," Bond says as he turns on his heel and takes off at a run.


	4. Chapter 4

> Russia stands tonight on the brink of second revolution. With the number of deaths from freezing increases, hundred of thousands of angry, frightened citizens are tonight gathering outside the Kremlin in Red Square. But this is not another political rally, these people have come on the promise of a revelation, as Russian President Victor Karpov offers a mysterious solution to a crippling heating and oil shortage. Troops opposed to the elected government, led by General Leo Sklarov, have begun to ring the Russian capital city. You can see behind me, the tanks and soldiers already in place.
> 
> Angry, frightened citizens are gathering outside the Kremlin in Red Square, but they're not braving the bitter cold for yet another political rally, they've been drawn here on the promise of a revelation, whatever that may be, in what's become a life and death struggle for the future of democracy in Russia. This has been Melinda Clark reporting live, from the Red Square in Moscow.
> 
> **-BBC World News**  
> 

The explosion lights up the street, the black SUV rocketing toward the sky on a plume of fire, somersaulting midair as it falls back to earth. The sound is deafening, the spectacle startling and everyone close enough to see it ducks or screams; everyone reacts.

Everyone except for Q, who stands by the gates of the Embassy squinting in the blaze, his eyes straining to see even as the two soldiers bracketing him reach out to grab him round the shoulders and drag him down to his knees, to block him from the blast with their own bodies, as if his life is somehow more important than their own.

The instinct of the soldier, he thinks to himself, protect the civilian. Not unlike what Bond has just done, shoving him off into safety while he goes haring off after gun-toting lunatics.

Across the way, like a mirage standing at the edge of the fire, Q catches a glimpse of blond hair and that familiar figure. Bond catches his eye, standing still amidst a panicking crowd. "Are you alright?" someone is asking Q. One of his soldier-protectors. "Sir?"

"I'm fine." Bond pivots on his foot, flashing a cheeky salute in the general direction of the embassy gate before disappearing: a shadow returning to the dark. "I'm fine," Q says again, more strongly. 

It hadn't even occurred to Q how cold he was until he walked into the embassy and remembered what it was to be warm. He has to recount his story several times to various officials but he doesn't even mind that his whole body is thawing out, and he is slowly recalling what it feels like to be safe. "And how long have you been in Moscow, Doctor Russell?" he is asked somewhere in the middle of his first recitation of his story.

Q has to think about it for a moment. "A day?" It feels like more than that, a week, at the very least. He's exhausted and exhilarated, feeling strangely accomplished and impossibly alive.

It takes him two hours to realize that he has acquired two extra shadows; two soldiers who follow him everywhere, one on either side of him at all times. He might have gone even longer before noticing, except he's allowed a moment's respite in front of the fire and someone places a cup of tea in his hands. Q takes a sip and scrunches his face automatically, and a voice pipes up helpfully from beside him, "More sugar, sir?"

"Please, " Q says, and realizes, when the cup is removed temporarily from his grasp, that what he had previously assumed was a large number of British soldiers wandering about was actually just the same two. "I'm sorry," he says once he has had another sip of tea, perfectly prepared now that a dash more sugar has been added to the cup. "I've forgotten your names. That's terribly rude of me."

"That's quite alright, sir. We never gave them," says the one on the right, dark hair and dark eyes and a teasing smile. "I'm Corporal Edwards. This is Corporal Weir." Weir has light blond hair and a boyish face. They both carry a sidearm and hold themselves with stiff competency, as if perpetually ready for brawl or enemy attack. Q finishes his tea and lets his eyes fall closed.

"Sorry, sir," Weird says some time later. "There's a phone call for you."

It's on the tip of his tongue to say that no one knows where he is, and he experiences a brief, irrational moment of panic where he wonders if the Russian mafia has rung him up and is about blackmail him: his help with cold fusion in exchange for Bond's life, perhaps. 

"Hello?" he says when he picks up the phone. He hopes that he sounds suitably calm and unyielding, and not like someone who was moments ago having a kip by the fire.

"I trust you're not going to turn away protection now," Inspector Moneypenny says over the line, her voice strangely teasing. Q would have thought an inspector from the Yard would be perpetually concerned about professional conduct. Moneypenny doesn't seem to bother with that sort of thing. "Well?" she prompts.

"No," Q says. "No, it's appreciated. I suppose you're the reason I'm tripping over helpful soldiers?"

"Naturally." Her voice is smooth. The tone implies that she expects him to thank her at any moment. "Since you disappeared from London we've been keeping an eye out for you. Imagine our surprise when you turn up in Moscow of all places. Something you'd like to share, Doctor?"

Q rubs a tired hand across his brow. "Really? Again? Can't you just have one of the seven people here I've told it to fax you a copy of their report?"

"I'm looking at the reports," Moneypenny says. "I want to hear you tell it, darling."

He knows what part of the story has aroused her curiosity, because it's the same part of the story that has made everyone curious, thus far. Q is not an international art thief and has been, for the greater part of his life, an entirely normal and upstanding citizen of the United Kingdom, which means that when he got it into his head to go haring off to Moscow he booked his ticket with his own passport. What other option was there?

Of course, he was never explicitly told to stay in the country and since he used his own passport, and paid with his own money he's done nothing wrong. He's done something suspicious, there's no arguing with that, but there are no laws that he knows of in place that punish a person for behaving suspiciously. Anyway, there are hotel staff who staff who describe the burly Russian men who forcefully escorted Q out, which supports his claim that he was abducted. 

As for the unexpected trip to Moscow, it's a simple matter of devising a plausible lie: an unforeseen opportunity regarding his work that was impossible to resist. It's not a stretch for Moneypenny to believe that Russia might be interested in a new source of energy, given their present situation. She even posits that it might have been an elaborate trap for Q from the start.

"Are you certain you're alright, Doctor Russell?" she asks, and he's touched that she sounds so genuinely concerned. 

Despite her best intentions; she can't help him now that he's stuck in Russia. Her primary interest in all of this is Bond. Q says, "I'm fine. Though, I'd prefer to get out of this country before the bloody mob has me gunned down in the middle of the street."

"You'll be on the first available flight out, and you have your bodyguards for the rest of your time in Russia. They'll look after you." 

He has a brief, bitter moment where he wonders if she's concerned more for the fate of a potential witness in a career-making case, or for him personally. Then he promptly feels ashamed of his ingratitude. "Thank you," he says, sheepishly, and then hangs up the phone.

There is a distressing amount of paperwork to fill out. It occurs to him, as he is sat at a desk pen in hand and filling out a form to explain his heart medication that since the two pills he took in the back of the truck he hasn't needed another dose. He's been running around Moscow, trudging through sewers, shimmying down drainpipes, being shot at and hunted, and freezing cold for all of it, and he's not needed another pill.

"How are we getting to the airport?" he asks as he completes yet another form only to discover there is not another waiting for him. Double-checking, Q is relieved to discover he has at last completed all of the required paperwork.

"There's been some difficulties with de-icing the plane, sir," Weir tells him. "It might take some time, but when it's sorted, we'll travel to the airport by car."

"We're driving there?" The angry shouts are audible from outside, mobs of freezing Russians huddled over fires lit in metal drums, to say nothing about the men with guns undoubtedly lurking out there. Waiting. 

"Don't worry, sir," Edwards says. "We'll be by your side, all the way to the plane."

_______________________________________________________

With Q safely ensconced at the embassy Bond's next priority is finding some way out of this mess. It's not a question of simply getting out of the country. Tretiak is the sort of man who holds a grudge; he's also got all of Q's research and whether he knows what to make of it or not, Q has made it more than clear that this is unacceptable.

He takes a room at the Moscow Hotel under the name August Christopher, and then he sets about getting some necessary items: warm clothes and surveillance equipment. It's a simple enough thing to infiltrate Tretiak's home and plant a few bugs in key positions, such as the man's office.

Reconnaissance: the foundation of any truly successful operation. Bond sits on his hotel bed bent over his newly acquired laptop with his Bluetooth hooked over his ear, listening. 

Already he's heard enough to have a general idea of Tretiak's intentions. Cold fusion was meant to transform Ivan Tretiak into the savior of his countrymen. In their joy at finally being warm again, Russians would embrace a revolution gladly, putting their hero at the head of their government, overthrowing their current President. 

Now that cold fusion has failed, Tretiak, ever adaptable, has created a new plan. Through the microphone Bond managed to place on a cufflink he was able to overhear every second of the negotiated sale of cold fusion to President Karpov. Bond had been having a warm shower at the time, the Bluetooth on full volume sitting beside the sink, but he hadn't needed to hear the specifics to know what it meant. "The people will love you for this, Mister President," Tretiak had said.

The people of Russia are too cold and too terrified to tolerate dashed hope. Whether Q is able to prove his theory later or not, the damage will have been done when Tretiak exposes the sale and Karpov has only a malfunctioning machine to show for it. The Russian people will demand that Karpov step-down, and Tretiak will meet with little resistance as he steps in. Bond has no idea what the man intends to do as President, but can only surmise that it will not work out well for anyone except Ivan Tretiak. 

"Moscow must be ringed with tanks by early evening. Your troops will depose the President and install me as their new leader," the man is saying. He is in his private office, hosting a little get-together with the other members of his coup. Bond has been listening to a lot of pompous, self-congratulatory monologuing, but has at least managed to learn the names of some of the significant players, including the general spearheading the military aspect of the coup.

Lowering the volume, Bond deletes several messages waiting in his inbox. Over the wire he hears Yuri Gretkin, Tretiak's right-hand man, chuckling. "No one has guessed the simple truth of where the oil has gone. An entire sea of it hidden beneath our feet."

A subject line catches his attention, makes use of a familiar code and Bond opens the message, curious: "Godwin, I've heard on the grapevine that you're brokering a revolutionary new energy source. If it’s as good as it's cracked up to be, I have friends who can double your best offer, on deposit in Zurich within one hour of delivery and confirmation. I'll be waiting."

Carefully, Bond closes his laptop and shifts it aside, Tretiak chuckling all the while in his ear.

_______________________________________________________

Q is standing in the line at the makeshift canteen, amusing himself with increasingly absurd methods of de-icing an airplane. Corporal Weir has assured him that everything will be fine, and that a plane is being made ready, but Q is doubtful. 

Not that he entirely regrets his adventure. He's finally managed to leave England, which was nice, and meeting Bond was, well it was a bit of a mixed bag but mostly it was good. The shooting was a definite downside, as well as the whole being hunted by the Russian mob. Q would like to return home and pretend that he is perfectly safe. Actually, he'd prefer to return home and actually be perfectly safe. Either way, putting some distance between himself and this country seems like a very good idea, and it can't possibly happen soon enough for his tastes.

"This queue is barely even moving, is it?" Corporal Edwards says.

Q's shoulders slump as he looks at the far table, where there is a whole spread of fresh coffee and boiled water and a selection of teas. "Go on," Edwards tells him. "I'll hold your spot."

"Oh god, you're brilliant," Q says, infinitely grateful. Weir has already volunteered to save them a table, and Q figures his guards are getting a little lax only because they are in an enclosed room currently filled with vetted embassy staff and a priest who has been polishing off most of the coffee singlehandedly. He's staked out a table to himself conveniently close to the refreshments table and is sipping from his mug as he reads through what can only be a Bible, splayed open on the tabletop.

Q ignores the man as he picks up a mug, filling it with boiling water as he eyes the selection of teas: all herbal, no black teas whatsoever. Not even a lovely Darjeeling.

"You look lost, child. May I help you?" the priest offers, his voice lilting and his accent strange: possibly American, though why an American priest would be in the British Embassy, Q has no idea. He glances over his shoulder at the horrible too-small round glasses the man is wearing and the sizable, incredibly bushy blond-grey beard. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is August Christopher. I was named after Saint Augustine, who coined my favorite phrase: give me chastity and give me constancy, but do not give it yet."

"Oh, good lord," Q mutters under his breath, quickly turning back to the refreshments table and trying to look inconspicuous. "How the bloody hell did you manage to break in to the British Embassy?"

Bond scratches at his bristly beard and when he speaks, his voice is softer but he has at least let the accent drop. "What do you mean 'break in'. I'm British." He actually manages to sound offended.

"You're a lunatic," Q corrects. "Scotland Yard called and briefed everyone here about my apparent situation. I have bodyguards, as in, more than one. Also, that beard is hideous."

"Thank you." The bastard goes so far as to preen for a moment before he sobers. "Listen, they have you scheduled on the six o'clock flight out of Moscow."

"Six o'clock?" Q checks his watch. They must have finally managed to de-ice the plane. "How do you know this? They haven't even told me about it." 

"I need you to develop a sudden fear of flying," Bond says. Q is incredibly unimpressed with this request and it must show on his face, because raises his eyebrows pointedly and elaborates by saying, "Tretiak has men on that plane who have orders to return you to him at any cost. I need you to finish the formula and fax it to me, the number is on the back." 

The papers Bond passes over a plain computer white computer-grade pages, folded neatly three times. The fax number is written in neat black ink. Q unfolds the pages carefully and glances them over. Then he fixes the thief with what he hopes is a cold and unimpressed stare. "Why are you keeping my cards?" He trusts Bond, even if common sense cautions him against it. The idea of his life's work being out there, available to people who intend to misuse it, makes him feel faintly nauseous. It's clear Bond still has the cards, as the edges are visible on the Xeroxed pages Q is holding. As far as he is concerned there should be nothing stopping Bond from at least handing over the hard copy, even if it is not presently possible to remove it from the clutches of the Russian mafia. 

"I have to make a deal with Tretiak or you won't ever be safe," Bond says flatly. Then, half-mocking, he asks, "Don’t you trust me?"

Q crosses his arms. "Of course I trust you, August Christopher. I mean, Vincent Ferrer, Thomas More …"

Bond's features close off completely, and Q catches the way the man's pale blue eyes skitter about the room, undoubtedly noting the position of Q's erstwhile shadows. Then he stands form his table swiftly, wraps a hand around Q's elbow and shifts him off to the side, to a quiet spot by the wall. "Really? You're doing this now?"

"Don't be an idiot, of course I trust you," Q huffs, rolling his eyes. He flashes the other man a sly grin. "After all, you are my own personal saint."

Gently, Bond leans forward, resting their foreheads together. "You have to be a very good, and generally a very _dead_ person to become a saint. More importantly, you have to work three miracles." Stepping back, Bond raises his ridiculously bushy false eyebrows up comically high. "Get to work," then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd.

_______________________________________________________

Q estimated a little over two hours of uninterrupted work would be all it would take for him to resolve his sequencing difficulties. One hour and fifteen minutes after leaving the embassy, however, Bond receives a fax. It's strange to realize as he checks it over, that somehow the formula for cold fusion has actually become familiar to him. Enough that he could recognize, if not actually understand what any of the calculations mean.

With Q's work stowed safely in his coat pocket, and a plain black hat pulled over his hair, Bond makes his way to Tretiak Industries, past the guards caught up in a shift-change, and up four flights of stairs to the small windowless room where the scientist tasked with making sense of cold fusion is still hard at work.

Doctor Lev Botvin is a small man, with frazzled grey-white hair that's tangled and standing on end, five days of facial hair stippling his cheeks and a pair of frameless glasses perched on his nose, the prescription strong enough that his eyes are magnified, making him look like a startled cat when Bond deigns to step out of the shadows.

"What are you doing here?" Doctor Botvin asks, his eyes comically wide. "The work area is out there. Go away."

Bond spares a glance to the closed door, and then takes another step closer. "The work _could_ be here, though. Couldn't it? This machine, it _could_ work."

"What are you…?" 

There is a panic button beneath the lab counter; Bond catches the Doctor's hand before he can press it. "Listen to me before you do anything rash. I'm a friend of Doctor Russell's."

"Doctor Russell?" Botvin's shoulders slump slightly and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "This formula is unlike anything I've ever seen. I've been working, I have, but it makes no sense. Pieces that don't fit, and other pieces that …" 

Bond holds out Q's fax. It takes a moment, but Botvin eventually stops tugging at his hair long enough to realize that he is being offered something. As he reads the pages he doesn't once stop shaking his head, amazing lighting his face. "But this…" he says, mostly to himself. "This is so simple… this unlocks the entire formula. I can't believe…"

It's a revelation, it’s a breakthrough, it's world-changing, but Bond doesn't have the time to stand around and marvel at it. "Can you make it work?" 

"I don't understand…" Botvin says, reaching out to catch at the fabric of Bond's sleeve, like he expects Bond might go haring off before he has bothered to explain. "This work does not belong to me. Doctor Russell should…"

"I need a miracle."

Finally, Botvin seems to comprehend. "But the rally, Tretiak's rally is tonight. That's only twelve hours."

"Then you have twelve hours," Bond raises his eyebrows. "Make it work."

_______________________________________________________

Bond is improvising. He's calling in favors where he can, and building a plan as he goes along. Q has done his bit, and hopefully Doctor Botvin will come through. If he doesn't then Bond will be shot or tossed into a Russian prison, the Russian government will collapse and the country will be overtaken by a greedy dictator. To say nothing of people freezing to death all over Russia, and Q and Botvin invariably being murdered.

Botvin failing is not something that Bond enjoys dwelling on. 

Instead, he busies himself with contacting Alexa Frankeivitch, from whom he manages to procure a detailed map of KGB-built tunnels that lead directly into the Kremlin, and an additional map that shows the location of the President's personal suite. In exchange, he gives her a neat stack of cash and a handful of stolen jewels. She throws in a uniform coat belonging to one of the President's guards for free. "Because I like you," she says, with a smile. Later he discovers it has less to do with any fondness she might have for him, and more to do with the fact that she has picked his pocket.

A thief himself, Bond was prepared for this contingency and subsequently removed anything of family or significance from his wallet. He left a hastily drawn frowny-face there because it amused him to do so.

The last piece of his plan involves a long trek through Russian storm drains, and then up into the Kremlin. Speed is of the essence. If he doesn't reach President Karpov before Tretiak does, then the ensuing scenario bares a marked resemblance to the results of Botvin failing to get the device working. Actually, most of Bond's plan involves a significant reliance on details working out exactly right in order to avoid bloody revolution, imprisonment, death, and/or murder. 

His luck, what little he has of it, holds. Bond strides into the President's private suite to be bombarded with angry accusations of impertinence and lack of Russian courtesy from the President's wife, who sees only a man in the uniform worn by men sworn to protect her and her husband. Karpov, however, seems to be anticipating an uprising.

When Bond tosses his hat and coat aside, the President seems almost relieved. What little hesitation he might have retained is lost the moment Bond speaks in his own voice, British accent and all, "I want to help you destroy Ivan Tretiak."

Karpov has soft grey eyes and a soft face. He looks careworn and tired. "How do you propose to do that?"

There are shouts in the hallway, sounds of gunfire. _"Dorogoy Bog,"_ Karpov's wife gasps. She looks at Bond and says, in perfect English, "Is it a revolution?"

He shakes his head. "Not yet."

Karpov moves to stand by his wife, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder. "What is your plan?"

"You're going to stand trial in Red Square. Whatever Tretiak accuses you of, I need you to admit to it."

"Are you mad?" Karpov wonders aloud.

"Molchaniye," his wife tells him, ordering him to silence. There's desperation in her eyes but she fixes Bond with a resolute stare. "He will do it."

A second later the door comes crashing open and soldiers stream into the space, hauling out the President and his wife. "Who are you?" one soldier demands of Bond. "Speak!"

"Take him," another says, and a bag is shoved over Bond's head and a moment later somebody knocks him out.

_______________________________________________________

The soldiers at the embassy have a little break room in the basement with a gaming table and microwave and, most importantly, a television. Weir and Edwards both insist that it's all right, which is how Q finds himself crammed onto a lumpy couch with a bunch of soldiers.

On the screen, Ivan Tretiak is standing on a large outdoor stage made-up in Red Square, complete with a ridiculous light display and giant television screens that are currently showing the man's trimmed beard and balding head from two different sides, as the main camera focuses on him from the front. "Friends, countrymen, Russians!" he shouts, raising his hands up above his head.

"Oh god, really?" Q asks no one in particular as around him several of the soldiers start snickering.

"Surely you have heard by now of this morning's sensational events," Tretiak continues. "Many shocking documents were recovered from President's Karpov secret files, locked in his private safe." The giant screens are rolling footage of people marching through the President's office and pulling out papers from an open safe. "The documents, which will be published in tomorrow's papers, prove traitor Karpov was about to steal over 40 trillion of our precious Russian rubles, in a reckless scheme to save his own hide." 

The crowd gathered in the Square are all shouting and booing. The camera pans backward, capturing the mob and in doing so, brings President Karpov into frame. The man is standing tall, staring out at his angry citizens without any sign of remorse and, beside him, Q immediately recognizes the man clad all in black. He can't even muster any proper surprise because where else would Bond be but right there in the middle of an absolute clusterfuck?

As the mob's shouts quieten, Tretiak nodding his agreement with their outrage, he says, "To add to this insult, millions of dollars were to be paid to this international criminal," and here Tretiak gestures to his left, to where Bond is standing and, just to be helpful, the camera zooms in close to capture Bond's face, sans make-up or wig, sans any sort of disguise whatsoever, there on television for anyone to see. "This criminal!" Tretiak repeats, when people start booing again. "To buy a fairytale called cold fusion. Our President was prepared to bankrupt our national treasury for a device that does not work!"

The device in question is sitting at the foot of the stage, in front of Tretiak so the man can gesture at it dramatically. Q shifts forward in his seat, trying to see it better. "You pass an electric current into this machine," Tretiak is saying. "And there is supposed to be a chemical reaction! Do you deny this?"

 

President Karpov steps forward, as much as the soldiers flanking him will allow, and shouts, "Not at all! I proudly admit to it!"

The crowd has gone entirely silent and Tretiak notices this. "This machine does not work! It can't even light up a tiny light bulb!" he tells them firmly. Then he "Watch!" Tretiak makes a jerky motion and a soldier steps out of line and presses the button. 

Nothing happens. For a stretch of time that feels to Q like an eternity, there is nothing but darkness. "You see?" Tretiak asks. "I say, enough to this failure! Failure is behind us!"

"It's working," Q gasps, because at the bottom of the stage, the bulb that is perched atop the machine is beginning, just faintly, to glow. In the Square, people are noticing as well, whispering and murmuring that gets louder as the light begins to increase. "Yes, yes, god yes!" Q thinks, then realizes he's saying it out loud.

"You did it!" Weir is shouting from beside him, people are clapping and hooting and pounding on his back, and all Q can think as the light bulb shatters and light comes pouring out of the contraption, is how many people along the way called him an idiot and idealist, told him he had no right to call himself a scientist.

"Congratulations, Doctor Russell!" Edwards is shouting.

At the top left corner of the screen, Q catches sight of Bond. He's grinning.

_______________________________________________________

Light floods the Red Square and everywhere people are cheering. "Miracle one," Bond says to himself.

"Thank you, my friend," President Karpov is saying, shaking his hand firmly. Tretiak is bustling his way off the stage, Ilya is running toward the row of black SUVs, but recognizing that a coup is no longer imminent, the General who had, moments before, been prepared to arrest the President of his country now shouts out, "All troops loyal to Mother Russia must seize the traitor Tretiak!" It's satisfying to see so many soldiers descending on that bastard.

"I'm so sorry, mister President," the general is saying. "There was a miscommunication in the chain of command."

Bond stays long enough to see Ilya and Ivan Tretiak being handcuffed. Miracle two.

Then he escapes the chaos, taking one last look over his shoulder at cold fusion in action. That is one miracle he can't lay claim to. Smiling, Bond heads into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

> Moscow woke today to the forgotten sensation of warmth as millions of gallons of heating oil flowed from a storage depot beneath billionaire industrialist Ivan Tretiak's riverside mansion. This once-oil magnate and his son, Ilya, were arrested yesterday and taken to the infamous Lubyanks prison where they await trial, along with fellow conspirator General Leo Sklarov. The three are being held on multiple charges, including plotting to overthrow the government, treason and theft. A spokesperson for the president promises that the trial will be as thorough and unbiased as possible, but sympathies for the conspirators is low, and many are demanding the men be stripped of their wealth and sentenced to life imprisonment.
> 
> **-BBC World News**  
> 

The chairs at New Scotland Yard are scratchy and uncomfortable. Q doesn't know how he never noticed it, but can only reason that the last time he had found himself sitting at this particular desk he hadn't been in the best frame of mind: his formula had just been stolen, his optimism and naiveté had been smashed and, yes maybe his heart had even been broken. He had other things to think about than the furniture, but now that he's here and trying to look honest and convincing and not at all suspicious the fact that the uncomfortable chair is making him dearly wish to squirm is off-putting.

The way inspectors Mallory and Moneypenny are eyeballing him is certainly not helping.

"You mean to say," Mallory says, frustration evident in his tone. "That he made no threat to contact you again in the future?"

Q shrugs. "He never had the opportunity, to be honest. Most of our time together was spent running for our lives."

"Of course." Mallory’s brows pinching together. This is the second time he has recounted his story to the Yard, the first being his phone conversation with Moneypenny when he’d still been in Moscow. This is a follow-up, supposedly, though they aren’t exactly breaking any new ground. At any rate, the story Q ha been sticking to avoids a lot of the complicated moments, such as when he had been forced to eat his medication from out of Bond’s hand, or when they had spent quite a bit of time coiled around each other behind a dresser in an effort to prevent Bond freezing to death. 

Actually, now that he thinks about it, any point at which he and Bond were not running is apparently complicated, which might be why the inspectors are looking at him with such perplexed expressions. Quite possibly, to hear him tell it, he began running once the wheels of his plane touched ground and never stopped until he’d reached the British Embassy. It was a hellish few days but everyone knows about cold fusion now, that it works and who discovered it and there's no reason for anyone to try and come after him. Certainly not Bond, anyway. What else is there left for him to steal? Possibly Q’s fish, or his favorite mug.

That's all that the Yard needs to know: that it's over and it's done. The end. Move on, because Q intends to.

Moneypenny flashes an awkward smile, as if she is uncertain whether to look sympathetic or relieved on his behalf. "It’s good that you’re safe,” she says again. “You'll tell us if he tries to contact you?" 

"Of course." Q nods his head and does his best to look reassuring and trustworthy. 

"Which he may well do," Mallory points out sternly, his gaze is shrewd and piercing. "He's a proper rogue, this so-called 'saint'. He charms men and women, and takes what he wants from them. It's his stock and trade."

"No offense," Moneypenny hastily placates.

"I understand absolutely, inspectors," Q says, keeping his voice steady. "But I'm certain you will understand that I am offended. I was neither charmed nor seduced. The only thing I received from this 'saint' was a series of near-death experiences."

"Count yourself lucky," Mallory mutters.

Reaching for his scarf, Q says, "If that's all, I have to get back to Oxford."

Moneypenny smiles. "Oh yes, the conference. Is that tomorrow then?"

"The first of many, I fear." Q is unable to mask his exasperation. The downside to completing a project as massive as cold fusion is that there are a good number of people who want it explained to them. In depth. "I'm not much of a public speaker."

"I'm sure you'll be brilliant." Moneypenny offers him a smile, and shakes his hand. 

"Yes." Mallory clears his throat, far less sociable that his partner."We appreciate you taking the time."

"Of course. Anything I can do to help." Then he turns on his heel and tries not to seem as if he running out of the building, even though it feels like that’s precisely what he’s doing.

_______________________________________________________

There’s a piece of paper tucked beneath the wiper blade of his Volvo. For a moment Q thinks that he’s been ticketed, which fills him so much outraged indignation that he almost turns on his heel and walks right back into the Yard to protest. Vociferously.

As he approaches his car, however, it occurs to him that while it has been a rather long time since he has received a parking ticket, usually they are not left inside sealed envelopes. He plucks it from its place and unlocks his car, putting the keys in the ignition but not starting it. 

The seal on the envelope comes apart easily, inside he finds a folded piece and after a shameful amount of time it occurs to him that the message is not actually gibberish, but coded. He makes a mental note to endeavor to actually get some sleep at some point, the sooner the better, and briefly entertains the fantasy of falling asleep mid-lecture and then wonders if it might be possible to deliver an entirely lecture in his sleep. He certainly knows the material well enough.

The code isn’t simple but he solves it soon enough, bracing the page against the flat of the steering wheel and scribbling notes with the nub of a pencil. When it’s solved, he looks at the little map he has for a moment feeling the sort of self-satisfied pride that one might feel from a good puzzle well solved, and then it occurs to him that he is still sitting in the parking lot at the Yard. Glancing over his shoulder, Q sees no one suspicious milling about and, more importantly, no officers taking a particular interest in either him or his car. Still, there is no reason to linger. He twists his key in the ignition and makes quick work of navigating out onto the main street. 

The further he gets from London, the more it feels as if a weight is easing off his shoulders. It’s not in his nature to lie to the authorities and he’d been dreading that meeting from the moment he’d jotted down the date and time. Now it’s done, and he can pretend, at least for a little while, that he will no longer be of any interest to the inspectors. Certainly he doesn’t plan on being of use to them.

Periodically, Q consults the map as he drives, but mostly the route it seems to be directing him on takes him up to Oxford along familiar roads. He checks his rearview mirror frequently because he can think of only one person who might go about sticking ridiculous coded maps on his car, and Q has no wish to lead the police anywhere near his destination.

It's a little over an hour to get from London to Oxford, and a little longer than that to navigate the narrower, tree-lined roads. Q spends several minutes idling his car in the middle of a drive marked by two stone columns supporting a wrought-iron gate, which has been left open. "What the hell?" he whispers to himself, and then finally manages to press his foot gently to the gas pedal and inch his way up to the two story stone manor house.

Of course, Q should have known better than to suspect Bond capable of anything remotely subtle. The silver Astin Martin DB5 parked out front of the stately house convinces Q that yes, he is in the right place. "Unbelievable bastard."

The front door, heavy aged wood with wrought iron crisscrossing bars protecting a square window to peep-through, is also open. He finds himself wondering if a lecture on appropriate security measures is in order, then realizes that Bond would likely smile obligingly and then do whatever he pleased anyway.

Despite the fact that the place is clearly old it has also been well maintained. The wood floors in the front hall are stained dark and positively gleaming, and there’s a chandelier glowing softly overhead. The space looks comfortable and cozy. Lived-in, he finds himself thinking, which make shim wonder if this is simply an effect, or if Bond has in fact been in Oxford all this time.

Any desire he might have had to snoop is quelled when he hears a faint crackling sound and instead he makes his way to the foyer where a fire has been set in the fireplace. There, Q finds a glass of scotch waiting for him on a side table near a small collection of folded square pieces of paper. His cold fusion notes. The formula is complete and recorded on a computer, safely protected by every trap and trick that he knows but he still finds himself checking each card carefully, making certain they are all accounted for. 

Folding them together, Q tucks the cards into his pocket and then stops. There’s a prickle along the back of his neck. It feels very much as if he is being watched. He picks up the glass of scotch and tries to appear calm and casual as he slowly turns around, even though his heart is double stepping in his chest. "Don't you think this is a bit much?" he asks, gesturing with his glass to indicate not only the bear-skin rug in front of the burning fire and the scotch and the cards but also the whole house and the ridiculous car. Bond stands there, perfectly intact and impeccably dressed, looking unbearable pleased with himself. Q raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What is this?"

Bond glances around. "Home? At least temporarily."

Scoffing, Q takes a drink of scotch. "You don't buy a place like this to be temporary."

"There is the chance that I might move to London," Bond says. "Or Scotland. Or maybe I'll leave the UK altogether."

The phrasing is all too familiar, Q remembers saying the same thing as he struggled to get Bond into dry clothes in the crawl space back in Russia. He’s been positing about how his life might change, should he ever retrieve his formula and complete his research. With a shiver, Q realizes what it is that Bond is saying. 

Glancing away, Q considers the idea of staying annoyed and promptly dismisses it in favor of stepping forward until his body is pressed to Bond's. "Your car is giving my Volvo a complex. If this is going to work, you'll have to keep it in the garage."

Instead of answering Bond presses their mouthes together, which is good enough for Q. "I missed you," Bond admits, his voice hushed as if he is surprised to realize it, or perhaps he is simply surprised that he admitted it.

It makes Q giddy, makes him want to grin like an idiot and since he knows that anything he says would only embarrass Bond more, he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Bond's mouth and does his best to muster up his previous irritation. "You couldn't have called?"

"It hasn't been safe." 

Bond's hands are moving as he says this and when Q glances over to see what Bond is doing, he sees his own scarf and coat landing on the sofa. "Christ, when did you manage to get those off me?"

"I suppose now would be the appropriate moment to mention my being a thief?" Bond frames Q's face with his hands and they're kissing again, deeper and longer until Q feels breathless and ecstatic. He keeps thinking: 'yes' and 'he's here', one thought chasing the other round and round as he allows Bond to maneuver them backward. "I'm going to make love to you on that fur rug." 

Q's efforts to work the other man free of his clothes are momentarily halted. "Alright," he says confidently, though he swallows thickly.

It's an awkward commotion of movement, hands push-pulling, tugging belts loose and shirts off, kicking out of shoes and stumbling over socks that are almost though not quite off. By the time Q's naked skin presses into the soft fur of the rug, his glasses cast aside somewhere, gasping and more than a little disheveled he has succeeded in his task of ridding Bond of every inch of that rather stunning suit ensemble and also managed to mark that place just beneath the man's left collarbone that Q has become fond of, if only because it makes Bond moan so achingly.

"I'm not just a thief, Q…" Bond's arms bracing him above Q's sprawled limbs, his breaths coming heavily, and his expression raw and open. There's so much conflict lurking in the depths of his bright blue eyes that instinctively Q reaches up, presses the flat of his palm against the other man's chest not to push him away, but to remind him of Q's presence. "My life is strange. I don't do anything normal..." he pauses when Q can't contain a bright burst of laughter at what seems to him to be a gross understatement as well as a completely shared character trait. "I can't…"

"Bond," Q interrupts, shaking his head and smiling. "I _know_ you." He finds himself pinned beneath a searching blue-eyed gaze for a moment before Bond's expression shifts. As if he is unable to believe that it could be this simple, or perhaps thinking Q might simply be naïve. Q meets Bond's gaze steadily because he knows he's not: he's not a fool, he knows what he's getting himself into but is doesn't matter. It stopped mattering a long time ago.

"Right." A fond smile creeps across Bond's mouth. Q catches only a fleeting glimpse of it before the other man has lowered his head, tracing leisurely kisses along Q's neck. "And I know you."

"Mm. So you do." Q lets his eyes fall closed and moans when a hot mouth ghosts across that place behind his ear, first gently and then more deliberately, a press of tongue and lips just there.

When Bond speaks again his voice his different strange in a way that Q's lust-fogged brain has trouble making sense of. An accent, a nasal quality to it as he says, "You know you're a very pretty young man."

"…what?" Q gasps, his eyes opening to stare at the ceiling overhead. There's the barest whisper of a memory lurking somewhere just out of reach, he's torn between puzzling it out and telling Bond to get to it already.

Bond cocks his head to the side sharply, almost birdlike. The movement is completely unlike what Q has come to associate with this man. "You don't believe in all this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo, do ya?"

"Oh Christ." Q recognizes that American accent and he knows exactly where he's heard it before. He pops up onto his elbows as his eyes narrow. "That was you?"

Even without his glasses Q can see the smirk on Bond's face. The amusement is evident in the quality of his tone as he says, "It's what I thought Doctor Quentin Russell would like." He drops a few appeasing kisses onto Q's bare skin. 

"You had terrifyingly yellow teeth," Q exclaims. "And you were balding!"

"And I wore the same glasses as you." 

Q hadn't realized that at the time. "You were going to seduce me by being ignorant, American, and rude?"

"I wasn't going to seduce you," Bond says solemnly. "That came later."

"A spur of the moment thing."

"As I recall," Bond says, groping for something beneath the sofa. "You weren't complaining." He emerges from his exploration of the dust bunnies lurking in the shadows holding up a bottle of lubricant. 

Q considers the pros and cons involved with his options and then spreads his legs apart, allowing the other man to scoot between them as he slicks his fingers. "Of course I wasn't complaining," Q argues reasonably as Bond pushes two fingers into him. He has to pause to groan and shift his hips into a more comfortable position, and then Bond shifts up to share a slow kiss while his fingers work Q open. When they break apart Q lets his head drop back and says, "Until the next morning when I realized you were gone, along with my formula."

Bond's fingers stop scissoring for a moment. "Are you never going to forgive me for that? I did give them back to you."

"To be honest. I don't feel much like talking right now."

Bond grins all too devilishly for a man that Scotland Yard has dubbed 'The Saint'. "What _do_ you want?" he asks with a smirk as his fingers brush tantalizingly so close to Q's prostate. Back and forth but never enough, dammit.

"You already _know_ what I want."

"Tell me."

Locking his heels behind Bond's back, Q pushes and twists until the other man is pinned to the rug beneath him. "I want _you_." He lifts up, Bond's hands bracing his hips as Q reaches for Bond's cock, rubs it once with a hand slicked with lubricant and shifts forward, settling into position and letting his weight guide Bond into his body. "I want you," he repeats on a sigh, Bond sheathed fully inside him. 

Bond's hands drag against his skin from his hips to his nipples, moving to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he is dragged forward into a searing kiss. He rocks, Bond's cock slipping against his prostate and his entire body tense with pleasure. 

"For how long?" Bond asks, his voice wrecked, growling into Q's mouth. 

It's sex, fucking brilliant sex. It's more than that, too: homecoming, a reunion, a vow, Q can hardly put words to everything that he's feeling. Bond's simple question masks layers of meaning, multifarious and complex. He answers as honestly as he can: "It doesn't matter."

What seems like centuries ago, when they had first met, Q had wanted a moment of romance. A sweet memory, something perfect that he could hold onto and look back on fondly. Thomas Moore had been that sweet memory. 

James Bond, however, is something else altogether, and Q has no delusions that this might be simple, or easy. It doesn't matter, he'll be happy with every complicated, undoubtedly infuriating moment of it. "It doesn't matter," he repeats, his hips falling into an instinctive rhythm that Bond rises to meet. 

It's enough. It’s everything.

_______________________________________________________

They fuck on the rug: Q braced above him and it's slow and deep and deliberate. On his hands and knees demanding more, harder, now now now. On his back, legs splayed apart for Bond, skin sheened with sweat, hot from their exertion and from the heat of the fire, breathless and not fully recovered, running his hands over his face and through his hair, unable to form words until afterwards, collapsed and spent and intertwined: "Do you think this rug has been ruined yet?"

"I'll buy another one," Bond answers flippantly because he couldn't care less about the rug. As far as he is concerned it has more than served its purpose.

Q shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Unbelievable."

They move to the sofa because they mistakenly think it might be cooler there. It isn't. Q braces himself over the armrest as Bond pushes into him, hard and fast and then slow and deep because he wants this to go on and on, for the rest of time. This perfect moment.

The fire dies out but they've generated so much heat between them that the steadily cooling air is a welcome relief. They lie, a mess of tangled limbs and skin that is stuck together in places, too tired to seek out one of the many bedrooms because at this precise moment the sofa is as good a place as any.

"I love you," Q says in the darkness, his breath ghosting against Bond's neck as he murmurs the words. 

Miracle three.

_______________________________________________________

There's a crick in his neck and Bond's limbs are aching. Diffuse morning light has filled the room and the fire has long since burnt out, though the scent of it lingers. There's a note on coffee table, folded and waiting between the lamp and an empty glass. It begins: "Dear James," and since Bond has never received a letter that bore good news, he puts it aside and gets up in order to pour himself a glass of straight scotch.

When he returns to the note he catches a glint of metal that he hadn't noticed earlier, pushing the paper aside with a finger so he can better inspect it. 

It's a pin, that much he ascertains the moment he picks it up. The design is simplistic: a little stick-figure man with one hand on his hip. The figure is silver, or maybe white gold, but the round circular disc that hovers above its head is shiny and golden. A halo.

Downing the rest of his glass Bond returns to the note, skimming it through quickly, as if reading it quickly will somehow lessen the anticipated pain. Then he reads it again, slower.

It's short because clearly Q was in a hurry. There are no flowery prose because as romantic as he is Q can only ever express himself directly and honestly. After a brief explanation for the pin (an heirloom he is passing on because he wants Bond to have something of his) and an allusion to an epiphany Q somehow managed to have between all the sex last night, Bond reads the simplest explanation for the younger man's absence: "I'm going to give cold fusion to the world."

Tossing the note aside, Bond grabs his keys and heads for the door.

_______________________________________________________

Q spends the better part of the morning camped out in a shadowed corner of The Missing Bean, downing a truly terrifying amount of coffee and filling in the margins of his typed speech with jotted notes. The coffee is meant to wake him up and soothe his nerves but it hasn't worked. Well, he is admittedly more alert but most of his energy is being directed toward fretting over a diverse range of issues beginning with the rational but quickly deteriorating to the absurd. When he starts imagining Russian mobsters invading the lecture hall with automatic rifles while he, blinded after having broken his glasses tripping over the steps to the podium, suddenly begins to speak in some horrifying version of pig-Latin in order to disguise the fact that he has suddenly forgotten how cold fusion even works, Q switches to drinking water and vows from this day forward to only ever drink tea. Why had he ever strayed? 

The revising of his speech is supposed to make him feel better prepared, and also to distract him from thoughts of Bond and whether or not the thief will be angry or more disappointed by Q's plan. 

Maybe he'll come to the conference in that soft grey suit Q is particularly fond of. Maybe he'll actually be pleased. 

In short, Q's morning spent admittedly hiding in a coffee shop has been a failure on every point and his lecture time is rapidly approaching. He finds himself temporarily blinded by an especially bright winter midday sun, bundled in his coat and scarf and rifling through the crumpled draft of his speech made illegible for all his careful notations. He sets out in the direction of the Sheldonian Theater. 

He's just coming up to the gate when a hand closes tightly around his upper arm, dragging him backward towards the street and then further, until his back is pressed to the slate wall of the corner building. It happens so quickly that he doesn't have the opportunity to shout, and when his brain has finally caught-up with him he's looking into a very familiar face.

"Bond! What are you doing here?" After Russia, Q has come to the conclusion that he is not at all fond of surprises. 

"You could make an inconceivable amount of money," is what Bond says. He releases his grip on Q's upper arm but he's standing close enough that Q can feel the heat from the other man's body. "This experiment that you have been working on for years. Q…" His bright blue eyes shift to the right for a moment before meeting Q's again. "Are you honestly prepared to give it up?"

In the beginning, when he was idealistic and yes, maybe a little naïve and certainly very stubborn, Q had begun his research because people had told him that it was ridiculous. Impossible. He has made a habit of always believing in impossible things. His interest in it was purely scientific, to prove that it could be done and he had thought his involvement with cold fusion would end with the discovery itself. Whatever happened afterward would be beyond his control, and not really his concern.

The more he worked on it, however, the more his faith in cold fusion grew. The more he began to imagine its possibilities, the ramifications it would have for the world. After that, he always thought that if he ever managed to succeed, cold fusion could only ever belong to the everyone because to give it to one country, one organization would be wrong, unfair and shortsighted. 

Now there is so much more riding on his choice, so much enticing him to change his mind, not the least of which is this man standing in front of him. "I…"

"Do you think," Bond interrupts, crowding him even further into the wall. "That giving cold fusion to the world, preventing us from making a genuinely ridiculous fortune will accomplish anything?" 

Q says, "I…" because yes, he does believe all of that, but suddenly his confidence is shaken with Bond here, leaning into him, positively thrumming with intensity. 

Then, because Bond is mercurial and also because his goal in life is apparently to give Q a heart attack, he closes the last bit of distance between them and presses their mouths together. Q's first thought is that perhaps someone from Yard has just passed them and then he realizes that no, Bond actually just wants to kiss him, so he lets his eyes fall closed and gives in.

It feels like an age but when Bond breaks the kiss he doesn't step back, just rests their foreheads together, cupping Q's face gently as he says, "You're absolutely right."

"I am?" Of he's right. Q knows all of the reasons supporting his choice, but he has no idea why Bond is agreeing with him. Carefully he searches the other man's face for any trace of resentment, regret or hesitancy. At some point during their kiss Q's hands have caught hold of the lapels on Bond's coat and he tightens his grasp, shoves Bond backward and then tugs him close again. "You bloody bastard," he accuses. "I thought you were angry with me!" There's something pressing uncomfortably into his right palm. When he glances down, Q what is it. "You wore the pin."

The right corner of Bond's mouth twitches upward. "Mm. I'm considering the possibility of making it my calling card. Or rather," he corrects, "The Saint's calling card."

"Oh no. Now that you've retired from common thievery you're taking-up robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Righting the world's problems one theft at a time?"

"I'm taking a page from _your_ book."

"I've never stolen anything in my entire life," Q protests. Then he has to hastily correct this statement because Bond is already opening his mouth to disagree, " _Once_ ," he says. "That time in North Hampton doesn't count. I was barely _six years old_."

"So you started even earlier than I did. I was actually referring to how you stabilized the political climate of an entire country not even a week ago."

"Oh, that." He shrugs flippantly, as if he did that sort of thing every day. "That was a group effort."

Bond's amusement has a teasing quality to it. "How many miracles does that put _you_ at?"

Tilting his head, Q considers this. "Including solving the world's energy crisis and stealing your heart? It must be over eleven now, surely."

Bond's laugh takes Q by surprise, it's full and loud and carefree. "I was right," Bond says, shaking his head. "You are an irascible, idealistic and sentimental scientist, too stubborn for his own good. God only knows how I love you."

It's the first time he has ever heard the words from Bond and he has to fight the impulse to grin like a lunatic, and accompany his manic expression with a dance and perhaps a whistled tune. Instead, Q schools his expression into a frown. "You didn't mention my genius intellect, or how I've accomplished what so many others have failed to do, and I refer here both to my scientific achievement as well as my romantic accomplishment. Also you haven't even alluded to my considerable skills in the bedroom."

"How remiss of me." Bond leans forward again and this time the kiss is far too brief for Q's liking. "You better go. You'll be late." 

Abruptly Q is reminded of his damnable lecture, of the illegible speech notes he is still clutching in his left hand. "How will I find you?" he blurts, and then feels foolish. He knows where Bond lives: a ridiculous estate not at all far from the university. He knows Bond's tricks now, his habits and history.

"I'll find you," Bond answers, not taking the opportunity to tease Q at all. Then his expression softens. "You found me."

It's the simple truth of them, and it's good enough. Grinning, Q pushes off from the wall and turns toward the gate.

_______________________________________________________

He enters the amphitheater just as the woman tasked with the introductory speech finishes listing Q's many accomplishments and, with an excited smile on her face, gestures to her left and says, "Doctor Quentin Russell." Bond's timing is never anything less than impeccable.

As the applause fills the hall, he makes his down the steps in search of an empty seat. There aren't many, but Bond's eye falls on one beside a familiar figure. He knows the man's name now: Inspector Mallory, Q had given quite a long description of the man as part of his recounting of his ordeal with Scotland Yard: "Which is all your fault," he had pointed out, fixing Bond with an accusatory look.

Of course, Bond is in disguise. Whatever Q might have said to the Yard about his willingness to cooperate, he is the only promising lead in the case against Bond and the inspectors tasked with his arrest will not be so easily appeased. The particular disguise, however, Bond selected purely for sentimental reasons, yellow teeth and all.

With a smirk, he licks his palm and smooths the gray hairs of his wig, combed over the wide-expanse of his makeshift balding scalp. "Excuse me," he says in a nasal voice, American accent in place as he leans down, just slightly. "Is this seat taken?"

Mallory stops eyeballing the audience suspiciously and, somewhat distractedly, glances at Bond. "Pardon?" he asks, and then glances over to the vacant seat that Bond is looking at rather pointedly. "Oh, no. Please."

"Thank-you." He settles into the chair, looking at the stage where Q has taken his place behind the podium and begun to his own introduction of cold fusion. Bond drops his voice to hushed whisper and leans into Mallory's space. "Do you believe in this cold fusion mumbo-jumbo?"

Mallory looks uncomfortable for a moment, and then admits, "No. Not really." 

It makes Bond grin, flashing his brilliantly hideous teeth. "I'm his biggest fan," he says, with a gesture toward the stage. "I think he's a fox."

"Excuse me?" Mallory blurts, goggling at the unexpected declaration. Bond ignores him in favor of Q.

"I'm certain everyone here is aware that cold fusion has had a…" At the podium, Q stutters, his eyes catching sight of Bond who grins and wriggles his fingers in inconspicuous greeting. Q catches himself quickly, continuing with a notable warmth to his voice, "…a difficult childhood. Those of us working in the field are orphans…" He narrows his eyes pointedly at Bond as he adds, " _Bastards_ , at best. But difficult childhoods, I believe, make the most interesting adults." 

Bond waggles his bushy eyebrows lasciviously and is rewarded when Q turns away from the microphone and raises a hand to his mouth, a laugh disguised as a cough. As he pauses for a sip of water Bond notices Mallory's partner, Moneypenny, seated in the front row close to the stage. She's there as much to find Bond as she is to protect Q from the 'dangerous criminal', which Bond supposes is a comforting thought. He can only be so grateful, however, when she shifts in her seat, scanning the audience behind her. 

Her eyes land directly on Bond.

As Q continues with his presentation, Bond keeps an eye on Moneypenny as she squints at him, peering at something clasped in her hand and then over at her partner. Even at this distance Bond can make-out that the picture she holds up is his own face, a close-up from the Moscow rally where Bond had been without a disguise, without a hat or scarf even, and standing in front of dozens of cameras. 

"Is it him?" she mouthes soundlessly when she catches Mallory's eye. 

Mallory looks at his partner as if she has gone insane, glances dubiously at Bond before mouthing back: "Who?" Bond tries not to laugh at the incredibly unsubtle action of the Yard. Honestly, he thinks, it's a wonder they ever catch anyone at all.

"Is it him?" Moneypenny is repeating, her mouth exaggerating the shape of each syllable, and this time she adds a gesture that clearly indicates Bond.

On the stage Q is raising a rather judgmental eyebrow at Bond, which rather eloquently expresses his thoughts on Bond's antics, his intentional taunting of the poor inspectors who are merely trying to do their job. He does all of this while continuing his lecture: "Even though some of you may still believe that cold fusion's practical application is still speculative, I've come here to share with you today how that dream is slowly being made a reality. While it is true that it may take years to…"

Mallory shifts in his seat to get a better look at Bond, and then turns back to his partner. "Him?" is the word his mouth silently shapes. 

"I'll just be off," Bond says to no one in particular, offering a wave over his shoulder to Q as he makes his way to the door of the theater, removing his disguise as he steps out into the crisp winter air, walking in the direction of his Astin Martin, Scotland Yard still sitting, oblivious, behind him.

> Donations totaling four billion pounds were made to the Red Cross Society, the Salvation Army, and the United Nations Children Fund. The money was reportedly wired from jailed Russian tycoon Ivan Tretiak's personal account. No word yet as to the reasoning behind Mister Tretiak's sudden good will, but a spokesperson for the Salvation Army affirmed that the funds were legitimate. 
> 
> In other philanthropic news, a non-profit research foundation has been established to develop cold fusion technology. Funded with an anonymous donation and to be headed by Russian physicist Doctor Lev Botvin, The Q-Branch foundation is charged to develop this new inexpensive, abundant and clean energy source.
> 
> **-BBC Radio 1**  
> 


End file.
